The  Gradle  Song 

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THE   CRADLE   SONG 


f. 


G.  MARTINEZ  SIERRA 


THE  CRADLE  SONG 

^nd  Other  Tlays 


BY 

G.  MARTINEZ  SIERRA 


IN  ENGLISH  VERSIONS  WITH  AN 
INTRODUCTION   BY 

JOHN  GARRETT  UNDERHILL 


New  York 
E.  P.  DUTTON  &  CO.,  INC. 


THE  CRADLE  SONG,  COPYRIGHT,  1922, 
BY  E.  P.  DUTTON  &  CO.,  ALL 
RIGHTS  RESERVED    ::  PRINTED  IN  U.S.A. 


First  Printing November,   1922 

Second  Printing February,  1929 

Third  Printing September,  1929 

Fourth  Printing December,  1931 


Performance  forbidden  and  riehts  of  representation  reserved. 
Application  for  amateur  or  professional  rights  of  performance 
of  any  of  these  plays  must  be  addressed  to  the  Translator,  in 
care  of  the  Publishers. 

Attention  is  drawn  to  the  penalties  provided  by  law  for  any 
infringement  of  rights  under  Section  4966.  United  States 
Revised  Statutes.  Title  60.  Chapter  3. 


College 
Library 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction vii 

The  Cradle  Song 5 

{Cancion  de  Cuna) 

The  Lover y^ 

{El  Enamorado) 

Love  Magic 95 

{Hechizo  de  Amor) 

Poor  John 119 

{El  Pobrecito  Juan) 

Madame  Pepita 153 

Translated  in  collaboration  with 
May  Heywood  Broun 


2047585 


INTRODUCTION 

Gregorio  Martinez  Sierra  was  born  at  Madrid  March  6, 
1881,  Maria  de  la  O  Lejarraga  at  San  Millan  de  la  Cogolla, 
a  mountain  village  in  the  fertile  wine-growing  district  of 
the  Rioja,  one  year  previously.  They  were  married  in  1899. 
Gregorio  Martinez  Sierra  is  not  only  a  name  but  a  pen- 
name,  and  the  works  which  have  appeared  under  it  are  the 
result  of  a  collaboration  that  began  even  before  marriage 
and  has  continued  through  all  their  books  and  plays  ever 
since. 

Precocious  in  talent,  Gregorio  attended  the  University  of 
Madrid  where  he  came  to  grief  in  history,  doubtless,  as  he 
says,  because  of  a  settled  aversion  to  battles.  His  affinity 
for  formal  study  was  slight.  Maria,  however,  early  asso- 
ciated herself  with  the  educational  system  and  was  already 
established  as  a  teacher  in  the  public  normal  schools.  To- 
gether they  soon  abandoned  all  thought  of  academic  prefer- 
ment  and   turned   to   literature   as   a   career. 

At  seventeen,  with  the  manuscript  of  his  first  book.  El 
poema  del  trabajo  ("The  Song  of  Labor"),  he  presented 
himself  to  Jacinto  Benavente,  who  furnished  an  introduction 
and  arranged  its  publication  which  took  place  in  1898.  Two 
series  of  prose  poems,  or  pastels,  as  they  were  called  in  that 
day,  followed,  besides  a  collection  of  short  stories,  Cuentos 
breves,  issued  independently  and  attributed  to  Maria.  In 
1900  a  novelette.  Almas  ausentes  was  awarded  the  prize  in 
a  contest  conducted  by  the  Biblioteca  Mignon.  This  and 
other  tales  of  the  sort,  subsequently  appearing  separately, 
have  been  reprinted  in  three  volumes,  Abril  melancolico 
("Melancholy    April"),    El   diablo    se    rie    ("The    Devil 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

Laughs"),  and  La  selva  muda  ("The  Silent  Wood").  The 
most  notable  work  in  the  shorter  form,  however,  is  con- 
tained in  Sol  de  la  tarde,  or  "Declining  Sun,"  which  estab- 
lished their  reputation  beyond  cavil  in  1904.  To  the  same 
year  belongs  the  first  of  two  novels,  "The  Humble  Truth," 
while  a  second  and  more  popular  venture  in  the  field  of 
fiction,  "Peace"  {Tu  eres  la  paz),  was  composed  two  years 
later. 

In  the  beginning  an  intellectual  by  temperament  and  a 
word-painter  by  inclination,  Martinez  Sierra  may  be  char- 
acterized as  an  impressionist,  well-versed  in  the  procedure 
of  the  modern  French  schools.  Perhaps  the  principal  per- 
sonal influence  of  his  formative  period  was  that  of  the  poet 
Juan  Ramon  Jimenez,  with  whom  he  kept  bachelor  hall 
at  Madrid.  Other  associations  of  these  days  were  likewise 
predominantly  literary,  and  leaders  of  the  mo4ern  movement 
such  as  Antonio  and  Manuel  Machado  and  the  Catalan, 
Santiago  Rusinol,  painter  of  gardens,  proved  themselves 
kindred  spirits.  Under  their  friendly  stimulus,  he  published 
a  volume  of  verse,  La  casa  de  la  primavera,  a  chance  excur- 
sion into  an  alien  domain,  as  well  as  a  prose  poem  upon 
"Hamlet  in  the  Person  of  Sarah  Bernhardt,"  With  these 
works  his  "Dream  Theatre"  may  be  coupled,  a  quartet  of 
symbolic,  mystical  dialogues  with  pronounced  Maeterlinckian 
tendencies. 

The  first  decade  of  the  productivity  of  Martinez  Sierra 
suggests  little  of  the  theatre.  It  was  quietistic  in  feeling, 
essentially  contemplative,  a  communion  with  idyllic  and 
elegiac  poets.  Yet  through  these  days  another  influence  had 
been  active,  although  less  conspicuously,  which  in  the  end 
was  to  prove  decisive.  In  the  year  immediately  following  the 
publication  of  "The  Song  of  Labor,"  the  Art  Theatre  was 
founded  at  Madrid  by  Benavente.  The  cooperation  of  the 
more  promising  of  the  younger  generation  was  enlisted, 
among  whom  was  Martinez  Sierra,  who  played  the  role 
of  Manuel  in  support  of  Benavente  in  the  latter's  comedy 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

"A  Long  Farewell"  at  the  opening  performance.  The  en- 
suing months  were  months  of  intimate  association  with  a 
remarkable  mind.  "As  I  listened  to  him  talk,  the  funda- 
mental laws  of  the  modern  theatre  were  revealed  to  me,  and 
I  have  profited  by  his  instruction  unceasingly."  So,  properly, 
Martinez  Sierra  had  already  served  an  apprenticeship  in 
the  theatre  before  he  began  to  write  plays.  His  debut  as 
a  playwright  was  delayed  for  ten  years,  and  was  then  made 
in  collaboration  with  Rusinol,  with  whom  he  composed  a 
comedy  entitled  Vida  y  dulzurOj  presented  at  the  Teatro 
de  la  Comedia,  Madrid,  in  1907.  This  was  followed  by 
Aucells  de  pas,  also  in  collaboration  with  Rusinol,  produced 
in  Catalan  at  Barcelona  in  1908,  and,  after  a  further  in- 
terval of  two  years,  by  Cors  de  dona,  in  Catalan  by  the  same 
hands.  Meanwhile,  during  the  spring  of  1909,  Martinez 
Sierra  attained  his  first  independent  success  with  the  comedy 
in  two  acts.  La  sombra  del  padre,  presented  at  the  Lara 
Theatre,  one  of  the  favorite  houses  of  the  capital.  El  ama  de 
la  casa,  ("The  Mistress  of  the  House,")  was  acted  at  the 
same  theatre  in  1910,  and  in  1911  he  achieved  a  definitive 
and  permanent  triumph  with  the  production  of  "The  Cradle 
Song,"  (Cancion  de  cuna).  A  companion  piece  Los  pastores, 
("The  Two  Shepherds"),  was  brought  out  in  1913,  also  at 
the  Lara.  As  Martinez  Sierra's  non-dramatic  prose  becomes 
most  nicely  expressive,  most  pictorial  and  most  imaginative 
in  Sol  de  la  tarde,  his  comedy  attains  perfection  in  these 
beautiful  idyls  of  the  religious  life.  Radiant  with  the  bland 
charm  and  luminosity  of  the  Andalusian  sketches  of  the 
Quinteros,  these  comedies  possess,  nevertheless,  a  quality 
which  is  distinctive  and  personal,  at  once  richer  and  humanly 
more  significant  than  the  work  of  any  competitors  in  the 
genre.  No  other  plays  convey  so  convincingly,  or  with  equal 
grace,  the  implications  of  environment  as  it  interprets  itself 
in  terms  of  character,  not  symbolically  nor  in  any  didactic 
way,  but  directly  and  visually  so  that  the  ambient  becomes 
the  protagonist  rather  than  the  individual,  and  the  spirit 


X  INTRODUCTION 

of  the  milieu  is  felt  to  express  more  clearly  than  words  the 
fundamentals  which  condition  its  life. 

"The  Cradle  Song"  has  been  translated  into  many 
languages,  and  has  been  played  and  imitated  widely  through- 
out the  civilized  world.  Ten  years  after  the  Madrid  pre- 
miere Augustin  Duncan  hazarded  four  special  matinees  in 
English  at  the  Times  Square  Theatre,  New  York,  begin- 
ning in  February,  1921,  without,  however,  attracting  sup- 
port. A  play  in  two  acts  was  held  to  be  revolutionary  by 
the  consensus  of  experts,  and  was  thought  to  fall  wholly 
without  the  purlieus  of  drama.  During  the  same  season 
a  slighter  piece,  "The  Romantic  Young  Lady"  (Sueno  de 
una  noche  de  agosto),  reached  the  London  stage  with  Dennis 
Eadie,  achieving  a  succes  d'estime.  The  publication  of  the 
plays  in  translation  fortunately  attracted  general  attention, 
and  it  was  not  long  before  the  wisdom  of  the  pioneers  had 
been  justified.  On  November  2,  1926,  "The  Cradle  Song" 
reappeared  at  the  Fortune  Theatre,  London,  with  Miss 
Gillian  Scaife,  to  be  later  transferred  to  the  Little  Theatre, 
where  it  completed  a  run  of  109  performances,  while  Miss 
Eva  LeGallienne  brought  her  singularly  fine  and  sensitive 
interpretation  to  the  Civic  Repertory  Theatre,  New  York, 
during  the  following  January,  where  it  has  been  repeated 
125  times,  A  special  company  headed  by  Miss  Mary  Shaw 
later  travelled  throughout  the  United  States.  Productions 
at  the  Playhouses  of  Oxford  and  Liverpool  and  the  Abbey 
Theatre,  Dublin,  also  deserve  mention.  Meanwhile  "The 
Romantic  Young  Lady"  was  revived  at  the  Neighborhood 
Playhouse,  New  York,  with  Miss  Mary  Ellis,  "The  Lover" 
presented  at  the  Fortune  Theatre  and  on  tour  through 
England  and  Scotland,  and  "Madame  Pepita"  at  the  Play- 
house, Oxford  and  the  Festival  Theatre,  Cambridge.  "Love 
Magic,"  the  first  piece  by  Sierra  to  be  acted  in  English 
(Waldorf-Astoria,  New  York,  March  1918),  "Poor  John", 
"The  Two  Shepherds"  and  "Wife  to  a  Famous  Man"  are 
all   familiar  in   the   little  theatres   of  Great   Britain   and 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

America.  Finally,  during  the  fall  of  1927,  Miss  Scaife 
and  Mr.  Eadie  brought  "The  Kingdom  of  God"  to  the 
Strand  Theatre,  and  the  same  play,  staged  and  directed  by 
Miss  Ethel  Barrymore,  was  recently  chosen  to  inaugurate 
the  new  Ethel  Barrymore  Theatre  in  this  city  in  December, 
1928. 

Martinez  Sierra  has  now  written  some  forty-six  original 
plays  which  have  been  acted,  in  addition  to  the  three  com- 
posed in  collaboration  with  Rusiiiol.  He  has  translated  and 
adapted  forty-seven  plays,  chiefly  from  the  French,  English 
and  Catalan,  besides  making  occasional  excursions  into  Ger- 
man. Perhaps  the  most  important  translation  is  a  five- 
volume  edition  of  Maeterlinck.  His  non-dramatic  works 
occupy  thirty-two  volumes  to  which  six  others  of  transla- 
tions must  be  added.  In  the  intervals  of  composition,  he 
established  and  edited  Helios,  a  short-lived  literary  periodical, 
and  founded  and  directed  the  Biblioteca  Renacimiento,  one 
of  the  most  prosperous  and  progressive  publishing  houses  of 
the  capital.  He  has  also  edited  a  library  for  the  world's 
classics  in  translation,  and  more  recently  has  established  a 
publishing  house  of  his  own,  the  Biblioteca  Estrella.  In 
1916  he  assumed  the  management  of  the  Teatro  Eslava, 
Madrid,  installing  there  a  stock  company,  the  Compania 
Lirico-Dramdtica  Gregorio  Martinez  Sierra,  for  the  pre- 
sentation of  the  modern  repertory,  prominently  featuring  his 
own  plays.  Whether  from  the  point  of  view  of  acting 
or  of  mise  en  scene,  this  company  must  be  accounted  one  of 
the  most  complete  and  satisfying  in  the  peninsula.  A  Parisian 
engagement  was  undertaken  successfully  in  1925,  and  the 
company  has  since  twice  visited  America,  appearing  first  in 
a  repertory  of  eighteen  plays  upon  a  tour  extending  from 
Buenos  Aires  to  New  York,  terminating  at  the  Forrest  Thea- 
tre in  May  1927.  An  admirably  printed  and  illustrated 
selection  of  monographs,  Un  teatro  de  arte  en  Espdna, 
records  the  story  of  Sierra's  tenancy  of  the  Eslava  and  ren- 
ders adequate  tribute  to  Catalina  Barcena,  the  gifted  and 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

versatile  actress  around  whom  from  the  beginning  the  com- 
pany has  been  built. 

An  artist  who  is  subjected  continually  to  the  distractions 
of  business,  sacrifices  with  his  leisure  opportunity  for  de- 
tachment. Already,  previous  to  the  production  of  Los 
pastores,  Martinez  Sierra  had  manifested  a  tendency  to 
approximate  the  main  currents  of  the  modern  popular  thea- 
tre. An  improviser  of  unusual  facility,  he  composed  the 
slightest  of  musical  comedies  in  Margot  and  La  Tirana; 
a  charming  light  opera  libretto.  Las  golondrinas  ("The 
Swallows"),  based  upon  an  earlier  play,  Aucells  de  pas; 
grand  opera  libretto  in  La  llama,  and  the  scenario  of  a 
dancing  suite  with  music  by  Manuel  de  Falla  for  the  gypsy 
bailarina  Pastora  Imperio.  He  remade  old  comedies,  re- 
worked juvenilia,  republished  forgotten  stories,  and  drama- 
tised his  novel  Tu  eres  la  paz  as  Madrigal.  He  contrived 
pantomime.  The  lesser  plays  of  this  miscellaneous  epoch 
become  an  epitome  of  the  activities  of  the  contemporary 
Madrid  stage,  broadened,  however,  by  a  thorough  cosmo- 
politanism. They  are  eclectic,  light-hearted,  persistently 
gay,  and,  upon  the  more  serious  side,  progressive  documents 
considered  from  the  sociological  point  of  view.  As  he  has 
grown  older,  Martinez  Sierra  has  come  to  be  interested 
not  so  much  in  the  picturesque,  in  the  life  which  is  about 
to  pass,  as  it  lies  inert  in  the  present  with  all  the  remoteness 
of  objective  art,  as  he  is  in  the  future  with  its  promise  of 
the  amelioration  of  the  life  which  he  formerly  portrayed. 
He  is  an  apostle  of  the  new  order,  which  is  to  be  assured 
in  his  conception  through  the  dissemination  of  a  wider  and 
more  complete  knowledge,  a  more  truly  international  cul- 
ture and  sympathy,  a  keener  social  consciousness,  and,  more 
precisely  and  immediately,  through  the  promotion  of  certain 
reforms.  The  more  significant  of  the  recent  comedies,  "The 
Kingdom  of  God"  and  Esperanza  nuestra  ("The  Hope  That 
is  Ours")  are  indicative  of  this  development.  Although  by 
no  means  didactic,  they  are  purely  social  in  genesis  and  in 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

trend.  Even  his  Don  Juan  de  Espaha,  a  re-embodiment  of 
the  traditional  libertine  celebrated  by  Tirso  de  Molina  and 
by  Zorrilla,  is  a  Don  Juan  redeemed.  Yet  Sierra  remains 
essentially  a  man  of  the  theatre.  As  a  social  thinker,  his 
ideas  are  general,  by  no  chance  controversial,  rising  little 
beyond  a  broad  humanitarianism,  temperately  and  engagingly 
expressed.  "Letters  to  the  Women  of  Spain,"  "Feminism, 
Femininity  and  the  Spanish  Spirit,"  and  "The  Modern 
Woman,"  all  volumes  of  frankly  confessed  propaganda,  are 
more  effective  because  they  persuade  rather  than  provoke, 
avoiding  partisan  commitments  or  advocacies  of  any  sort. 
They  are  quite  as  dispassionately  impersonal  as  the  plays. 
In  these  maturer  vrorks,  as  in  those  of  Linares  Rivas  and 
Benavente,  the  modern  movement,  which  during  the  earlier 
years  of  the  century  had  been  predominantly  intellectual  and 
aesthetic,  turns  toward  the  practical  and  political  sphere, 
and  fixes  its  attention  upon  results.  It  is  the  completion 
of  the  cycle  which  began  in  1898. 

Thirty  years  have  slipped  by  since  the  publication  of 
"The  Song  of  Labor."  Martinez  Sierra  is  no  longer  a 
young  man  of  promise.  Soon  he  will  be  counted  among 
the  elders  whose  art  has  matured  and  attained  its  full  ex- 
tension, consolidated  and  ripened  by  experience.  It  is  now 
possible  to  appraise  his  accomplishment  and  to  determine 
with  relative  certainty  his  contribution  to  the  contemporary 
theatre. 

In  this  task,  the  secrets  of  a  collaboration  as  intimate  as 
it  has  been  enduring,  must  of  necessity  be  respected.  We 
have  no  work  avowedly  solely  by  Martinez  Sierra.  Only 
one  has  been  acknowledged  by  his  wife  as  her  own. 
Obviously,  the  letters  and  lectures  in  promotion  of  feminism 
are  at  least  in  great  part  by  a  feminine  hand.  Beyond 
question  she  is  responsible  for  the  major  share  of  transla- 
tion. An  increasing  proportion  of  the  later  output,  also, 
may  safely  be  attributed  to  her,  more  especially  the  collab- 
orations with   the  poet   Marquina  and   the  actor   Sassone, 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

carried  on  during  the  absence  of  the  Sierra  troupe  in  America. 
Then  "The  Cradle  Song"  is  a  reminiscence  of  Maria's 
youth  in  Carabanchel,  a  town  in  which  her  father  was  con- 
vent doctor  and  where  her  sister  took  the  veil,  the  Sister 
Joanna  of  the  Cross  of  the  play.  Her  intervention  here 
has  been  confessed  publicly.  Yet  these  facts,  though  con- 
ceded, shed  no  light  upon  the  basic  problem,  and  provide 
no  data  for  the  identification  of  individual  styles.  A  study 
of  the  earlier  poems  and  stories  might  seem,  indeed,  to  in- 
dicate that  the  elaboration  and  the  subsequent  simplification 
of  the  style  are  predominantly  to  be  credited  to  Gregorio, 
while  the  bulk  of  actual  composition — and  to  an  increasing 
extent  with  the  passing  years — has  been  done  by  Maria. 
Like  the  Quinteros,  Sierra  is  primarily  an  optimist,  a 
child  of  the  sun.  This  is  fundamental  in  his  theatre  and 
has  not  escaped  the  attention  of  the  Spanish  humorists: 
"Glory  to   God   in   the   highest. 

On  earth  peace,  good  will  toward  men! 

All's  well  with  the  world,  says  Martinez  Sierra, 

And  then  says  it  again." 
He  is  not,  however,  an  optimist  by  virtue  of  high  spirits 
or  uncommon  enthusiasms,  or  because  he  has  found  life 
pleasant  and  easy,  but  through  his  sensitiveness.  It  is  an 
optimism  that  is  partly  aesthetic,  partly  emotional.  His 
sympathies  have  led  him  to  hope.  He  has  faith  in  the  human 
equation,  trust  in  men  rather  than  in  measures.  The  law 
he  esteems  very  little  in  face  of  the  gentle  wisdom  whose 
increment  is  sure  with  the  years.  Social  progress  is  in- 
dividual progress  and  individual  progress  is  spiritual  prog- 
ress whose  conquests  are  recorded  first  in  the  heart.  This, 
of  course,  is  no  new  doctrine,  but  it  is  the  core  of  Martinez 
Sierra's  philosophy  and  the  main-spring  of  his  art.  In  so 
far  as  the  Church  is  a  liberating  and  humanizing  force  he 
is  a  Christian,  but  he  is  a  dissenter  from  all  creeds  and 
doctrines  which  restrict  and  inhibit  the  upward  march  of 
man. 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

Curiously  enough,  as  a  playwright,  Sierra,  for  all  his 
tenderness,  has  little  concern  with  the  individual.  This  is 
the  source  of  his  calm.  One  of  the  most  sensitive  of  men, 
he  is  also  one  of  the  most  detached.  His  drama  is  expository, 
chiefly  for  the  reason  that  the  inception  of  his  plays  is  in- 
variably generic  and  abstract.  They  are  illustrative  each 
of  some  general  axiom  or  principle,  whether  human  or  so- 
cial. He  is  no  apostle  of  personal  causes.  Every  man  must 
be  sufJered,  none  the  less,  to  shape  his  own  career — "Live 
Your  Own  Life."  The  old  virtues  are  destined  to  make 
way  before  the  advance  of  the  new — "The  Two  Shepherds." 
Sometimes,  again,  he  has  paused  to  probe  some  universal 
passion  or  emotion,  devotion  as  in  "The  Lover",  or,  as  in 
"The  Cradle  Song",  to  echo  the  cry  of  the  eternal  mother 
instinct  which  has  been  stifled  and  denied.  Sometimes,  as 
in  "Fragile  Rosina",  in  a  sportive  mood,  he  is  content  to 
parade  mere  temperament  or  an  idle  trait.  Plays  like  "The 
Cradle  Song"  and  "The  Kingdom  of  God"  are  eloquent 
too,  above  the  plane  of  feeling,  of  a  social  scheme,  a  new, 
a  better  life.  The  course  of  the  story  is  the  setting  forth 
of  the  idea,  the  impelling  emotion  in  all  its  significant  phases, 
now  by  direct  statement,  now  through  contrast,  but,  in 
whatever  way  it  may  be  effected,  the  content  is  plainly 
implicit  in  the  theme  from  the  beginning  to  become  evident 
in  detail  as  the  action  proceeds.  For  this  reason  the  volitional 
element,  in  so  far  as  it  passes  beyond  mere  childish  caprice, 
is  almost  wholly  lacking.  Sierra  draws  no  villains,  creates 
no  supermen,  heroically  imposing  their  wills,  inherits  no 
complexes,  and  cherishes  small  love  for  the  tricks  of  dis- 
play. His  taste  is  unfailingly  nice.  Mystery,  however 
veiled,  he  abhors,  complication  of  plot,  all  thrill  of  situa- 
tion. He  even  flees  those  internal  crises  of  character  which 
are  so  absorbing  to  the  great  dramatists,  through  whose 
struggles  personality  is  built  up  and  self-mastery  won.  These 
savor  always  of  violence  and  conflict,  no  matter  how  sub- 
jective or  subtle  they  may  be.     They  are  drama  of  action, 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

and  Sierra's  drama  is  static  drama.    He  is  content  to  sacri- 
fice movement   to  visual  quality,  excitement  to  charm. 

Although  indubitably  theatre  of  ideas,  characteristically 
and  fundamentally  this  is  emotional  theatre.  It  is  live  and 
warm.  Naturally  the  spectacular  ardors  v^^hich  have  been 
associated  time  out  of  mind  with  the  so-called  emotional 
play  have  been  discarded.  Yet  there  is  no  more  skilful 
purveyor  of  tears.  The  feeling  is  always  direct,  the  presen- 
tation transparently  clear.  The  playwright  displays  the 
intuitive  grace  of  simple  truth.  The  spectator  sees  and  is 
persuaded  without  argument  at  sight.  Life  is  depicted  as  a 
process  of  adjustment,  a  pervading  harmony  which  influ- 
ences the  characters  and  tempers  them  to  its  key,  so  that 
they  are  never  suffered  to  become  intellectualized.  This  is 
the  most  extraordinary  of  Sierra's  gifts.  His  men  and 
women  remain  spontaneously  human,  unchilled  by  the  ideas 
in  which  they  have  previously  been  conceived.  Standing  by 
themselves,  it  is  true,  they  betray  a  tendency  to  pale  and 
grow  thin,  because,  like  the  action,  they  have  been  born  of 
the  theme,  and  acquire  substance  and  vitality  only  as  they 
fit  into  the  general  plan  and  merge  themselves  with  the 
incidents  and  scenes  which  reflect  their  life  history.  It  is 
an  art  compact  of  simplicities,  so  delicate  and  frail  that  it 
can  exist  authentically  only  at  propitious  moments.  Every 
element  must  concur  in  the  perfection  of  the  whole.  Ab- 
solute unity  is  indispensable.  Character  must  synchronize 
with  theme,  dialogue  with  action,  situation  with  background, 
until  each  at  last  becomes  articulate  in  the  other,  through 
every  shade  of  feeling  and  the  concord  of  smiles  and  tears. 
Otherwise  the  spell  is  shattered  and  ceases  to  be.  Comedy 
and  pathos  join  as  one.  Sierra's  art  is  a  blending  of  the 
more  tractable  emotions,  of  technical  elements  and  all  the 
ingredients  which  go  to  make  up  a  play,  that  is  so  com- 
plete as  not  to  stop  short  of  interpenetration.  To  achieve 
less  for  him  means  failure.  In  the  rehearsal  of  memory,  the 
people  of  the  plays   do  not   recur   to   the  mind,   nor  the 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

stones,  nor  any  fragments  nor  striking  features,  but  the 
atmosphere,  the  feeling,  the  impression  of  the  ensembles. 
The  plays  live  as  emotion,  pictures. 

When  posterity  comes  to  assess  the  fame  of  Martinez 
Sierra,  the  non-dramatic  works,  despite  their  undoubted 
merits,  beyond  peradventure  will  be  set  to  one  side.  Time 
will  ignore,  also,  as  it  has  already  done  in  large  measure, 
the  purely  theatrical,  occasional  pieces  contrived  to  meet 
the  needs  of  aspiring  actors  or  to  tide  over  the  exigencies 
of  importunate  companies,  including  specifically  his  ovm. 
There  will  remain  a  body  of  plays,  considerable  in  bulk, 
and  notable,  at  least  superficially,  in  variety.  A  surprising 
amount  of  the  best  work  must  be  assigned  to  the  plays  in 
one-act.  Few  have  wrought  more  happily  in  miniature, 
or  have  qualified  more  instinctively  in  the  lesser  genre.  The 
briefer  pieces  are  without  exception  deft  and  tenuous,  by  their 
very  nature  peculiarly  congenial  to  a  temperament  that  is 
shy  and  retiring  and  a  method  that  is  tactful  and  restrained. 
Sierra's  success  has  been  unquestioned  in  this  field.  In  two 
acts,  he  has  shown  equal  facility,  profiting  in  addition  by 
the  superior  dignity  and  weight  which  are  corollaries  of  the 
larger  scale.  "The  Cradle  Song"  is  Martinez  Sierra,  the 
epitome  of  his  virtues  and  the  confutation  of  his  detractors, 
while  into  this  group  fall  also  the  major  number  of  his 
more  serious  efforts  often,  perhaps,  only  by  limitation  of 
subject  inferior  to  those  better  known.  In  drama  of  greater 
extension  and  presumably  more  profound  import,  prolonged 
through  three  or  more  acts,  he  has  been  less  impressive.  The 
expository  method  here  becomes  treacherous,  for  either  the 
play  or  the  audience  in  the  end  is  obliged  to  move.  Con- 
fronted by  this  dilemma.  Sierra  falls  back  upon  episode, 
and  takes  refuge  in  devices  which  temporize  to  sustain  the 
interest,  and  at  best  are  purely  conventional.  The  most 
noteworthy  of  the  longer  plays  such  as  "The  Kingdom  of 
God",  are  in  consequence  properly  sequences  of  one-act 
units,  carefully  assembled  and  held  together  by  a  common 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

subject  or  related,  it  may  be,  by  a  single  character  which 
runs  its  course  through  them  all.  Still  they  preserve  unity 
of  atmosphere,  still  they  plead  unobtrusively  their  causes 
and  retain  the  freshness  of  their  visual  appeal,  but  the 
problem  at  full  length  is  more  complex,  position  and  juxta- 
position of  incident  are  not  so  potent  nor  so  suggestive,  while 
even  the  most  skilfully  graduated  emotion  proves  unable  ex- 
cept in  the  rarest  instances  to  dispense  with  progressive 
action  and  a  continuous  story  artfully  unrolled.  These  are 
multiple  dramas,  spoken  pageants.  They  are  chronicles  of 
the  modern  stage. 

In  the  history  of  the  theatre,  only  two  names,  Ramon 
de  la  Cruz  and  Quinones  de  Benavente,  both  coimtrymen 
of  Sierra's,  have  lived  as  creators  of  one-act  plays.  Sierra's 
title  to  fame  has  a  broader  basis.  He  has  produced  the  pop- 
ular masterpiece  of  the  two-act  style,  already  secure  as  an 
international  classic.  He  has  written  also  more  perfectly 
than  his  contemporaries  the  Spanish  realistic  comedy  of  at- 
mosphere, that  gently  sentimental,  placid  communion  with 
patience  and  peace  whose  quiet  falls  like  a  benediction  upon 
a  restless  world. 

John  Garrett  Underhill. 


THE  CRADLE  SONG 

COMEDY  IN  TWO  ACTS 

WITH  AN 

INTERLUDE  IN  VERSE 


TEATRO  LARA,  MADRID 

1911 

TIMES  SQUARE  THEATRE,  NEW  YORK 

1921 


FORTUNE  THEATRE,  LONDON 
1926 

CIVIC  REPERTORY  THEATRE,  NEW  YORK 
1927 


TO  JACINTO  BENAVENTE 


CHARACTERS 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross,  i8  years  of  age. 
Teresa,  aged  i8. 
The  Prioress,  aged  40. 
The  Vicaress,  aged  40. 
The  Mistress  of  Novices,  aged  36. 
Sister  Marcella,  aged  19. 
Sister  Maria  Jesus,  aged  19. 
Sister  Sagrario,  aged  18. 
Sister  Inez,  aged  50. 
Sister  Tornera,  aged  30. 
The  Doctor,  aged  60. 
Antonio,  aged  25. 
The  Poet. 
A  Countryman. 

Also  a  Lay  Sister,  Two  Monitors^  and  several  other  Nuns, 
as  desired. 


ACT  I 

A  room  opening  upon  the  cloister  of  a  Convent  of  Enclosed 
Dominican  Nuns.  The  walls  are  tinted  soberly;  the  floor 
is  tiled.  Three  arches  at  the  rear.  In  the  right  wall  a 
large  door  with  a  wicket  in  it,  leading  to  a  passage  com- 
municating with  the  exterior.  A  grilled  peephole  for  look- 
ing out.  Above  the  door  a  bell  which  may  be  rung  from 
the  street.  Beside  the  door  an  opening  containing  a  re- 
volving boXj  or  wheel,  on  which  objects  may  be  placed  and 
passed  in  from  the  outside  without  the  recipient's  being 
seen,  or  a  view  of  the  interior  disclosed.  Not  far  from 
this  wheel,  a  pine  table  stands  against  one  of  the  piers  of 
the  cloister.  Ancient  paintings  relieve  the  walls.  Through 
the  arches  the  cloister  garden  may  be  seen,  with  a  well  in 
the  middle;  also  a  number  of  fruit  trees,  some  greenery  and 
a  few  rose  bushes.  Beneath  the  arches,  potted  flowers — 
roses,  carnations,  sweet  basil,  herb  Louisa  and  balsam  apple 
— together  with  a  number  of  wooden  benches  and  rush- 
seated  chairs,  and  three  arm  chairs. 

As  the  curtain  rises  The  Prioress  is  discovered  seated  in 
the  largest  of  the  arm  chairs,  and  The  Mistress  of 
Novices  and  The  Vicaress  in  the  smaller  ones,  the  former 
on  the  right,  the  latter  on  the  left,  well  to  the  front.  The 
other  Nuns  are  grouped  about  them,  seated  also.  The 
novices.  Sister  Marcella,  Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross, 
Sister  Maria  Jesus  and  Sister  Sagrario  stand  some- 
what to  the  right.  Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross  occupy- 
ing the  centre  of  the  stage.  The  Lay  Sister  and  Sister 
Tornera  remain  standing  by  Phe  table  at  the  rear. 

It  is  broad  day  light.  The  scene  is  one  of  cheerfulness 
and  animation. 

Sister  Sagrario.    Yes,  do !    Do !    Do  let  her  read  them ! 

5 


6  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  I] 

Sister  Marcella.    Yes,  do  Mother!    Do  say  yes! 

Prioress.  Very  well.  You  may  read  them  then,  since 
you  have  written  them. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  I  am  very  much 
ashamed. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  These  are  the  temptations  of 
self-love,  my  child. 

Vicaress.     And  the  first  sin  in  the  world  was  pride. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  They  are  very  bad.  I 
know  you  will  all  laugh  at  me. 

Vicaress.     In  that  way  we  shall  mortify  your  vanity. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  Besides,  since  we  are  not  at 
school  here,  all  that  our  Mother  will  consider  in  them  will 
be  the  intention. 

Prioress.     Begin.     And  do  not  be  afraid. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  [Reciting.'\  To  oui 
Beloved  Mother  on  the  day  of  her  Blessed  Saint — her  birth- 
day: 

Most  reverend  Mother, 

On  this  happy  day 

Your  daughters  unite 

For  your  welfare  to  pray. 

We  are  the  sheep 

Who  under  your  care 

Are  seeking  out  Heaven — 

The  path  that  leads  there. 

On  one  side  the  roses, 

On  the  other  the  thorn, 

On  the   top  of   the   mountain 

Jesus  of  Mary  born. 

To  Jesus  we  pray 

Long  years  for  your  life, 

And  of  the  Virgin  Maria 

Freedom  from  strife; 

And  may  the  years  vie 

In  good  with  each  other, 

In  holiness  and  joy, 

Our  dearly-loved  Mother! 


[ACT  /]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  7 

[The  nuns  applaud  and  all  speak  at  once.'\ 

Some.     Good!     Very   good! 

Others.     Oh,  how  pretty! 

Sister  Tornera.  They  are  like  the  Jewels  of  the  Vir- 
gin! 

Sister  Inez.  [Depreciatwely.']  She  has  copied  them 
out  of  a  book. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  [Carried  away  by  her 
triumph.^     Long  live  our  Mother! 

All.     [Enthusiastically. "l     Long  live  our  Mother! 

Prioress.  Come,  you  must  not  flatter  me,  my  children. 
The  verses  are  very  pretty.  Many  thanks,  my  daughter. 
I  did  not  know  that  we  had  a  poet  in  the  house.  You 
must  copy  them  out  for  me  on  a  piece  of  paper,  scr  that  I 
may  have  them  to  read. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  They  are  copied  al- 
ready, reverend  Mother.  If  your  Reverence  will  be  pleased 
to  accept  them  .  .  . 

[She  offers  her  a  roll  of  parchment,  tied  elaborately 
with  blue  ribbons.  The  verses  are  written  on  the 
parchment  and  embellished  with  a  border  of  flowers, 
doves  and  hearts,  all  of  which  have  been  painted  by 
hand.^ 

Prioress.  [Taking  and  unrolling  the  parchment.^ 
Bless  me !  What  clear  writing  and  what  a  beautiful  border ! 
Can  you  paint  too? 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  No,  reverend  Mother. 
Sister  Maria  Jesus  copied  out  the  verses,  and  Sister 
Sagrario  painted  the  border.  Sister  Marcella  tied  the 
bows. 

Sister  Marcella.  So  it  ig  a  remembrance  from  ajl  the 
novices. 

Prioress.  And  all  the  while  I  knew  nothing  about  it  J 
The  children  have  learned  how  to  dissimulate  very  skil- 
fully. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.    "VVq  had  permission  from 


8  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [JCT  /] 

Mother  Anna  St.  Francis.  She  gave  us  the  ribbon  and  the 
parchment. 

Prioress.  No  wonder,  then.  So  the  Mother  Mistress 
of  Novices  Icnows  also  how  to  keep  secrets? 

Mistress  of  Novices.     Once  .  .  .  Only  for  to-day.  .  . 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Today  you  must  for- 
give everything. 

Prioress.     [Smilinff.']     The  fault  is  not  a  grave  one. 

ViCARESS.  [Acridly.]  Not  unless  it  leads  them  to  pride 
themselves  upon  their  accomplishments.  The  blessed 
mother  Santa  Teresa  de  Jesus  never  permitted  her  daughters 
to  do  fancy  work.  Evil  combats  us  where  we  least  ex- 
pect it,  and  ostentation  is  not  becoming  in  a  heart  which 
has  vowed  itself  to  poverty  and  humility. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  Glory  be  to  God,  Mother  Vic- 
aress,  but  why  must  your  Reverence  always  be  looking  for 
five  feet  on  the  cat? 

[Sister  Marcella  laughs  flagrantly.'] 

ViCARESS.     That  laugh  was  most  inopportune. 

Sister  Marcella.  [Pretending  repentance,  but  still 
continuing  to  laugh  in  spite  of  herself.]  I  beg  your 
pardon,  your  Reverence,  I  didn't  mean  it.  This  sister  has 
such  temptations  to  laugh,  and  she  can't  help  it. 

ViCARESS.     Biting  your  tongue  would  help  it. 

Sister  Marcella.  Don't  you  believe  it,  your  Reverence. 
No  indeed  it  wouldn't! 

Prioress.  [Thinking  it  best  to  intervene.]  Come,  you 
must  not  answer  back,  my  daughter.  Today  I  wish  to 
punish  nobody. 

ViCARESS.     [Muttering.]     Nor  today,  nor  never! 

Prioress.  [Aroused.]  What  does  your  Reverence 
mean  by  that.  Mother  Vicaress? 

ViCARESS.  [Very  meekly.]  What  we  all  know,  rever- 
end Mother — that  the  patience  of  your  Reverence  is  inex- 
haustible. 


[ACT  I]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  g 

Prioress.  Surely  your  Reverence  is  not  sorry  that  it 
is  so? 

ViCARESS.  [Belligerently.']  Not  upon  my  account,  no. 
For  by  the  grace  of  God  I  am  able  to  fulfil  my  obligation 
and  accommodate  myself  to  the  letter  and  spirit  of  our 
holy  rule.  But  there  are  those  who  are  otherwise,  who,  en- 
couraged by  leniency,  may  stumble  and  even  fall  .  .  . 

Prioress.  Has  your  Reverence  anything  definite  in  mind 
to  say?     If  so,  say  it. 

ViCARESS.  I  have  noticed  for  some  time — and  the  Lord 
will  absolve  me  of  malice — that  these  "temptations  to  laugh" 
of  which  Sister  Marcella  speaks,  have  been  abounding  in 
this  community;  and  these,  taken  with  other  manifestations 
of  self-indulgence,  not  any  less  effervescent,  are  signs  of 
a  certain  relaxation  of  virtue  and  deportment. 

Prioress.  I  hardly  think  we  need  trouble  ourselves 
upon  that  account.  Providence  has  been  pleased  of  late 
to  bring  into  our  fold  some  tender  lambs,  and  perhaps  they 
do  frisk  a  little  sometimes  in  the  pastures  of  the  Lord. 
But  the  poor  children  mean  no  harm.  Am  I  right  in  your 
opinion.  Mother  Mistress  of  Novices? 

Mistress  of  Novices.  You  are  always  right  in  my 
opinion,  reverend  Mother.     Gaudeamus  autem  in  Domino! 

ViCARESS.  Your  Reverences  of  course  know  what  you 
are  doing.     I  have  complied  with  my  obligation. 

[The  bell  rings  at  the  entrance.  Sister  Tornera, 
who  is  an  active  little  old  woman,  goes  up  to  the 
grille  and  looks  through  it,  after  first  having  made  a 
reverence  to  the  Prioress.] 

Sister  Tornera.     Ave  Maria  Purissima! 

A  Voice.  [Outside,  hoarse  and  rough.]  Conceived 
without  sin.  Is  it  permitted  to  speak  with  the  Mother 
Abbess  ? 

Sister  Tornera.     Say  what  you  have  need  of,  brother. 
'  Voice.     Then  here's  a  present  for  her  from  my  lady,  the 


lo  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  I] 

mayor's  wife,  who  wishes  her  happiness,  and  sends  her 
this  present,  and  she's  sorry  she  can't  come  herself  to  tell 
her;  but  she  can't,  and  you  know  the  reason  .  .  .  [The 
Prioress  siffhsj  lifting  up  her  eyes  to  heaven,  and  the  others 
do  the  same,  all  sighing  in  unison.^  And  even  if  she  could 
on  that  account,  she  couldn't  do  it,  because  she's  sick  in 
bed,  and  you  know  the  reason  .  .  . 

Sister  Tornera.  God's  will  be  done!  Can  the  poor 
woman  get  no  rest?  Tell  her  that  we  will  send  her  a  jar  of 
ointment  in  the  name  of  the  blessed  Saint  Clara,  and  say 
that  these  poor  sisters  never  forget  her  in  their  prayers. 
They  pray  every  day  that  the  Lord  will  send  her  comfort. 
[She  turns  the  wheel  by  the  grille,  and  a  basket  appears, 
neatly  covered  with  a  white  cloth.]  Ah! — and  the  reve- 
rend Mother  thanks  her  for  this  remembrance.  And  may 
God  be  with  you,  brother.  [Approaching  the  others  with 
the  basket,  which  she  has  taken  from  the  wheel.']  Poor 
lady!  What  tribulations  our  Lord  sends  into  this  world 
upon  the  cross  of  matrimony! 

Prioress.  And  to  her  more  than  anybody.  Such  a 
submissive  creature,  and  married  to  a  perfect  prodigal! 

Mistress  of  Novices.  Now  that  we  are  on  the  sub- 
ject, your  Reverences,  and  have  the  pot  by  the  handle,  so 
to  speak,  do  your  Reverences  know  that  the  blasphemies 
of  that  man  have  completely  turned  his  head?  You  heard 
the  bells  of  the  parish  church  ringing  at  noon  yesterday? 
Well,  that  was  because  the  mayor  ordered  them  to  be 
rung,  because  in  the  election  at  Madrid  yesterday  the  re- 
publicans had  the  majority. 

All.     God  bless  us!     God  bless  us! 

Vicaress.     Did  the  priest  give  his  consent  to  that? 

Sister  Inez.  The  priest  is  another  sheep  of  the  same 
color — he  belongs  to  the  same  flock,  may  the  Lord  for- 
give me  if  I  lack  charity!  Didn't  your  Reverences  hear 
the  sacrilege  he  committed  upon  our  poor  chaplain,  who  is 
holier  than  God's  bread?    Well,  he  told  him  that  he  was 


[ACT  /]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  ii 

more  liberal  than  the  mayor,  and  that  the  next  thing  he 
knew,  when  he  least  expected  it,  he  was  going  to  sing  the 
introitus  to  the  mass  to  the  music  of  the  Hymn  of  Riego! 

Prioress.  Stop!  Enough!  It  is  not  right  to  repeat 
such  blasphemies. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  Yes,  calumnies  invented  by  un- 
believers, the  evil-minded  .  .  . 

Sister  Inez.  No  such  thing!  Didn't  Father  Calixtus 
tell  me  himself  while  he  was  dressing  for  mass  this  morn- 
ing? We'll  have  to  put  a  new  strip  pretty  soon  down  the 
middle  of  his  chasuble. 

Prioress.    What  ?    Again  ? 

Sister  Inez.  Yes.  It's  all  worn  out;  it  looks  ter- 
ribly. Poor  Father  Calixtus  is  so  eloquent!  Pounding  on 
his  chest  all  the  time,   he  simply  tears  the  silk  to  pieces. 

ViCARESS.     God's  will  be  done,  the  man  is  a  saint! 

Prioress.  And  all  this  while  we  have  been  forgetting 
the  present  from  the  mayor's  wife.  Bring  it  nearer. 
Sister. 

Sister  Sagrario.     Mercy!    What  a  big  basket! 

Sister  Tornera.     It's  very  light,  though. 

Sister  Inez.  H!a!  It's  easy  to  see  what  sister  has  a 
sweet  tooth! 

Sister  Mari'a  Jesus.    As  if  she  didn't  like  sweets! 
[Aside.l 

Sister  Marcella.  Now,  Sister  Inez,  what  did  we  see 
you  doing  this  morning?  You  know  we  caught  you  lick- 
ing the  cake  pan  yourself. 

Sister  Inez.  I?  Licking  the  pan?  Your  Sister  lick- 
ing the  pan?     Oh,  what  a  slander!     Jesus/ 

I*RI0RESS.  Come,  you  must  not  be  displeased,  Sister 
Inez;  for  it  was  said  only  in  pleasantry.  Ah,  Sister  Mar- 
cella! Sister  Marcella!  Do  have  a  little  more  circum- 
spection and  beg  your  Sister's  pardon. 

Sistek  Marcella.  [Kneeling  before  Sister  Inez.] 
Pardon  me,  Sister,  as  may  God  pardon  you,  and  give  me 


12  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  /] 

your  hand  to  kiss  as  a  penance  for  having  offended  you. 

Prioress.  That  is  the  way  my  children  should  behave, 
humbly  and  with  contrition.  Sister  Inez,  give  Sister 
Marcella  your  hand  to  kiss,  since  she  begs  it  of  you  so 
humbly. 

Sister  Marcella.  [Spitefully,  after  kissing  her  hand.] 
Ay!  But  what  a  smell  of  vanilla  jou  have  on  your  fingers, 
Sister!  Goody!  We're  going  to  have  cookies  for  lunch. 
[The  others  laugh.] 

Sister  Inez.  [Irritated,  almost  in  tears.]  Vanilla? 
God-a-mercy!  Vanilla!  Look  at  me!  Do  my  fingers 
smell  of  vanilla? 

Prioress.  [Imposing  silence.]  Surely  the  devil  must 
be  in  you.  Sister  Marcella,  and  may  God  forgive  you  for 
it!  Go  and  kneel  in  the  corner  there  with  your  face  to 
the  wall,  and  make  the  cross  with  your  arms  while  you 
repeat  a  greater  station.  May  the  Lord  forgive  you  for 
it! 

Sister  Marcella.    Willingly,  reverend  Mother. 

Sister  Inez.  [Rubbing  her  hands  under  her  scapular.] 
Too  bad!     Too  bad!     Ay!    Ay!    Ay! 

Sister  Marcella.     [Aside.]     Old  box  of  bones! 

[She  goes  and  kneels  in  the  corner,  right,  but  keeps 
smiling  and  turning  her  head  while  she  lets  herself 
sink  back  on  her  heels,  as  if  not  taking  the  penance 
too   seriously.] 

Prioress.  You  may  uncover  the  basket  now,  Sister. 
Let  us  see  what  is  in  it. 

Sister  Tornera.  With  your  permission,  reverend 
Mother.     Why!     It's  a  cage! 

Sister  Sagrario.     With  a  canary  in  it! 

All.  a  canary!  A  canary!  Why,  so  it  is!  Let  me 
see!     How  lovely! 

iMtstress  of   Novices.     Isn't  it  pretty? 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  The  dear!  Isn't  it  cunning, 
though  ? 


[ACT  7]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  13 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  It  looks  as  if  it  were 
made  of  silk. 

Sister  Inez.     I  wonder  if  it  can  sing? 

Prioress.  Of  course  it  can  sing.  The  mayor's  wife 
would  never  send  us  a  canary  that  couldn't  sing. 

Sister  Sagrario.  What  a  beautiful  cage!  Why, 
there's  a  scroll  on  the  front! 

MiSTOESS  OF  Novices.  That  isn't  a  scroll.  It  has 
letters  on  it. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  Why,  so  it  has!  Look  and  see 
what  they  say. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  "The  Convent  of  Dominican 
Nuns!" 

Sister  Inez.  [Laughinff.]  I'd  call  that  a  pretty  airy 
convent ! 

ViCARESS.  The  good  woman  is  holier  than  God's 
bread. 

Prioress.  She  could  not  have  sent  me  anything  that 
would  have  pleased  me  better.  I  have  always  been  anxious 
to  have  a  canary. 

Sister  Inez.  The  Carmelite  Sisters  have  two  lovely 
canaries,  and  they  say  last  year  on  Holy  Thursday  they 
hung  them  in  the  door  of  the  tomb  they  have  in  the  church 
for  Easter,  and  it  was  like  a  miracle  to  hear  them  sing. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  Then  if  ours  sings,  we  can  hang 
him  in  the  church  this  year,  and  take  the  music  box  away. 

Prioress.  No,  for  the  music  box  is  a  present  from  the 
chaplain,  and  he  would  rightly  be  offended.  We  will 
have  the  box  and  the  canary  there  together,  and  when  we 
wind  up  the  box,  it  will  encourage  the  bird  to  sing. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Oh,  look  at  him  now 
— he's  taking  his  bath! 

Sister  Sagrario.     See  how  he  jumps. 

Prioress.     What  wonders  God  performs! 

Vicaress.  And  yet  there  are  misguided  creatures  n^ho 
pretend  that  the  world  made   itself! 


14  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  /] 

Sister  Inez.  Sister  Marcella  stuck  her  tongue  out  at 
me. 

Sister  Marcella.  Oh,  reverend  Mother!  I  did 
nothing  of  the  kind! 

ViCARESS.  How  nothing  of  the  kind?  Didn't  I  see 
it  with   my  own   eyes?     And   I   was  struck  dumb! 

Sister  Marcella.  I  said  nothing  of  the  kind  .  .  . 
as  ...  as  that  I  had  stuck  my  tongue  out  at  Sister 
Inez.  I  stuck  it  out  because  there  was  a  fly  on  the  end 
of  my  nose,  and  since  I  had  my  arms  out  making  the  cross, 
I  had  to  frighten  him  away  with  something. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Reverend  Mother,  since 
this  is  your  Saint's  day,  won't  you  please  excuse  Sister 
Marcella  this  time? 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  Yes,  reverend  Mother!  I  am 
sure  she  won't   do   anything  that's  wrong   again. 

Prioress.  Sister  Inez  is  the  one  who  has  been  offended, 
and  she  is  the  only  one  who  has  the  right  to  request  her 
pardon. 

Novices.  She  does!  She  does!  You  do,  don't  you, 
Sister  Inez? 

Sister  Inez.  [With  a  wry  face.}  Your  Reverence  will 
pardon  her  when  your  Reverence  thinks  best. 

Prioress.  Then  come  here,  my  erring  daughter. — She 
knows  that  I  pardon  her  because  of  the  day,  and  so  as 
not  to  spoil  the  pleasure  of  her  sisters. 

Sister  Marcella.  May  God  reward  you,  reverend 
Mother! 

Prioress.  And  set  your  veil  straight,  for  this  is  the 
Lord's  house,  and  it  looks  as  if  you  were  going  on  an  ex- 
cursion.— And  now  to  your  cells,  every  one.  {To  the 
Novices.)     What  are  you  whispering  about? 

Sister  Sagrario.  We  were  not  whispering.  Mother 
.  .  .  We  wanted  to  ask  you  something. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.     And  we  are  afraid  to  do  it. 

Prioress.     Is  it  as  bad  as  that? 


[ACT  I]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  15 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.     No,  it  isn't  bad.     But 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Your  Reverence  might 
think  so. 

Prioress.     I  might?     I  am  not  so  evil-minded. 

Sister  Sagrario.  I  .  .  .  I  .  .  .  Our  Mother  Mistress 
will  tell  you. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  Th'ey  mean  me. — Do  you  want 
me  to? 

Novices.    Yes!    Yes!     Do! 

Mistress  of  Novices.  With  God's  help  I  will  try. 
Though  I  don't  know  for  certain,  I  think  what  they  want 
is  for  your  Reverence  to  give  them  permission  to  talk  a 
little,  while  they  are  waiting  for  the  beginning  of  the 
fiesta.     Am  I  right? 

Novices.    Yes!    Yes!    You  are!     Do,  Mother,  do! 

Sister  Marcella.     Long  live  our  Mother! 

Prioress.  Silence!  Silence!  What?  Haven't  they 
had  talking  enough  to-day  after  the  dispensation  I  allowed 
them  this  morning? 

ViCARESS.  The  appetite  always  grows  by  what  it  feeds 
on.  It  is  an  unruly  monster,  and  woe  to  her  who  gives  it 
rein.  If  they  came  under  my  authority,  I  would  not  give 
them  opportunity  to  make  a  single  slip,  for  the  holy  Apostle 
Saint  James  has  said  and  well  said:  "He  who  saith  that 
he  hath  not  offended  by  his  tongue,  lies." 

Sister  Marcella.  Ah,  Sister  Crucifixion!  Don't  spoil 
this  holiday  for  our  Mother. 

Vicaress.  Spoil  it,  eh?  Who  pays  any  attention  to 
what  I  say  in  this  house? 

Prioress.  Will  you  promise  not  to  whisper  nor  offend 
the  Lord  with  foolish  talk? 

Novices.     We  promise. 

Prioress.  Then  you  may  talk  as  much  as  you  like  until 
the  hour  for  prayers. 

Novices.  Thanks,  thanks!  [The  bell  rings  at  the 
entrance  twice.'\ 


i6  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  /] 

Sister  Tornera.    Two  rings!    The  doctor! 

Prioress.  Cover  your  faces.  [The  nuns  lower  their 
veils  over  their  faces.'\  And  pass  out  through  the  cloister. 
[The  nuns  begin  to  file  out  slowly  and  disappear  through 
the  cloister.^ 

Sister  Sagrario.  [Approaching  the  Prioress.]  This 
Sister  has  a  felon,  reverend  Mother. 

Prioress.  Remain  then — and  yiou  too,  Sister  Maria 
Jesus.  [To  Sister  Tornera.]  Open,  Sister.  [The 
Prioress,  Sister  Tornera,  Sister  Sagrario  and  Sister 
Maria  Jesus  remain.  Sister  Tornera  unchains,  unbolts 
and  opens  the  door.  The  Doctor  enters.  He  is  about 
sixty  years  of  age.^ 

Sister    Tornera.    Ave   Maria   Purissima! 

Doctor.  Conceived  without  sin.  [He  comes  /».] 
Good  morning,  Sister. 

Sister  Tornera.     Good  morning,  Doctor. 

Doctor.  Well,  what  progress  are  we  making  in  holi- 
ness today? 

Sister  Tornera.     [Laughing. '\     Ho,  ho,  Doctor! 

Doctor.  Enough!  Enough!  No  doubt,  no  doubt! 
[Discovering   the    Prioress.]     Congratulations,    Mother. 

Prioress.  What?  A  heretic,  and  yet  you  remember 
the  days  of  the  saints? 

Doctor.     You  are  the  saint,  Mother;  you  are  the  saint. 

Prioress.  Ah !  You  must  not  scandalize  me  before  my 
novices. 

Doctor.  Novices?  Where,  where?  I  said  so  when  I 
came  in.     I  smell  fresh  meat. 

Prioress.     Don  Jose!     Don  Jose! 

Doctor.  But  I  say  no  more.  Come!  To  work!  To 
work!  .  .  .  What  is  the  trouble  with  these  white  lambs? 

Sister  Sagrario.  Your  handmaid  has  a  felon.  Doc- 
tor. 

Doctor.  Eh  ?  On  the  hand  ?  And  such  a  lovely  hand  \ 
Well,  we  shall  have  to  lance  it,  Sister. 


[ACT  7]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  17 

Sister   Sagrario.     [Alarmed.^     What?     Not   now? 

Doctor.  No,  tomorrow,  Sister.  Tomorrow,  unless 
it  yields  first  to  a  poultice  and  five  Pater  nosters.  Re- 
member, not  one  less! 

Sister  Sagrario.     [In  perfect  earnest.']     No,  Doctor. 

Doctor.     And  this  other  one,  eh? 

I*Ri0RESS.  Ah,  Doctor!  She  has  been  giving  me  a 
great  deal  of  worry.  She  falls  asleep  in  the  choir;  she 
sighs  continually  without  being  able  to  assign  any  reason; 
she  cries  over  nothing  whatever;  she  has  no  appetite  for 
anything  but  salads  .  .  . 

Doctor.     How  old  are  you? 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.     Eighteen. 

Doctor.     How  long  have  you  been  in  this  holy  house? 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.    Two  years  and  a  half. 

Doctor.  And  how  many  more  do  you  remain  before 
you  come  to  profession? 

Sister  Mari'a  Jesus.  Two  and  a  half  more,  if  the 
Lord  should  be  pleased  to  grant  this  unworthy  novice  grace 
to  become  his  bride. 

Doctor.     Let  me  see  the  face. 

Prioress.  Lift  your  veil.  [Sister  Maria  Jesus  lifts 
her  veil.] 

Doctor.  Hm!  The  Lord  has  not  bad  taste.  A  little 
pale,  but  well  rounded,  well  rounded. 

Sister  Tornera.  Don  Jose!  But  who  ever  heard  of 
such  a  doctor? 

Doctor.  So,  we  have  melancholy  then,  a  constant  dis- 
position to  sigh,  combined  with  loss  of  appetite — well,  there 
is  nothing  else  for  it.  Sister:  a  cold  bath  every  morning 
and   afterwards  a  few  minutes'  exercise  in  the  garden. 

Sister  Tornera.  [Somewhat  scandalized.]  Exercise? 
Don  Jose! 

Doctor.  Unless  we  write  at  once  home  to  her  mother 
to  hurry  and  fetch  her  and  find  us  a  good  husband  for 
her. 


i8  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  I] 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  Oh,  Don  Jose!  But  this  Sister 
has  taken  her  vows  to  the  Church! 

Doctor.  Well,  in  that  case  cold  water.  There  is 
nothing  else  for  it.  For  melancholy  at  eighteen,  matri- 
mony or  cold  water. 

Sister  Sagrario.  [Summoning  her  courage.^  You 
always  talk  so  much  about  it,  Doctor,  why  don't  you  get 
married  yourself? 

Doctor.  Because  I  am  sixty,  daughter;  and  it  is  fifteen 
years  since  I  have  felt  melancholy.  Besides,  whom  do 
you  expect  me  to  marry  when  all  the  pretty  girls  go  into 
convents  ? 

Prioress.  Doctor,  doctor!  This  conversation  will  be- 
come displeasing  to  me. 

Doctor.     Is  this  all  the  walking  infirmary? 

Sister  Tornera.    Yes,  Doctor. 

Doctor.     And  the  invalid?     How  is  she? 

Sister  Tornera.  She  is  the  same  to-day.  Doctor.  Poor 
Sister  Maria  of  Consolation  hasn't  closed  her  eyes  all 
night!  Don't  you  remember?  Yesterday  she  said  she  felt 
as  if  she  had  a  viper  gnawing  at  her  vitals?  Well,  today 
she  has  a  frog  in  her  throat. 
y  Doctor.  Goodness  gracious!  Come,  let  me  see, 
let  me  see.  What  a  continual  war  the  devil  does  wage 
against  these  poor  sisters! — Long  life,  Mother,  and  happy 
,  days! 

^^rioress.  Long  life  to  you.  Doctor.  [To  Sister 
/•^^loRNERA.]  Go  with  him.  Sister,  and  meanwhile  these 
children  will  take  care  of  the  gate.  [Sister  Tornera 
takes  a  bell  from  the  table  and,  her  veil  covering  her  face, 
precedes  the  Doctor  through  the  cloister,  ringing  solemnly 
in  warning.  They  disappear.^  I  must  repair  to  the  choir; 
I  fear  that  today  I  have  fallen  behind  in  devotion  and 
prayer. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  Will  your  Reverence  give  us 
permission  to  call  the  others? 


[ACT  /]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  19 

Prioress.  Yes,  call  them;  but  be  careful  that  you  com- 
mit no  frivolity.     [The  Prioress  poes  om/.] 

Sister  Mari'a  Jesus.  [^Approaching  one  of  the  arches 
of  the  cloister.]  Sister  Marcella!  Sister  Joanna  of  the 
Cross!  Pst!  Come  out!  We  are  watching  the  grille 
and  we  have  permission  to  talk. 

[Sister  Marcella  and  Sister  Joanna  of  the 
Cross  re-enter.] 

Sister  Sagrario.    What  shall  we  talk  about? 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Let  Sister  Marcella  tell 
us  a  story. 

Sister  Marcella.    Yes,  so  that  you'll  all  be  shocked. 

Sister  Mari'a  Jesus.  Ay/  We  are  not  such  hypo- 
crites as  that,  Sister. 

Sister  Marcella.  Or  so  that  Sister  Sagrario  can  run 
and  tell  on  us  to  the  Mother  Mistress. 

Sister  Sagrario.     Oh,  thank  you,  Sister! 

Sister  Marcella.  It  wouldn't  be  the  first  time 
either. 

Sister  Sagrario.  You  needn't  mind  me.  Sisters.  I  am 
going  to  sit  here  in  the  corner  and  work,  and  you  can 
talk  about  whatever  you  please.     I  shan't  hear  you. 

[She  takes  a  pair  of  pincers,  some  beads  and  a  piece 
of  wire  out  of  her  pocket,  and  sitting  down  in  a  corner, 
begins  to  string  a  rosary.] 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Oh,  come  on.  Sister! 
Don't  be  foolish.  [They  all  surround  her,  and  finally 
she  allows  herself  to  be  persuaded,  after  many  expres- 
sions of  protest,  like  a  small  child  who  says  "I  wont 
play.'"] 

Sister  Sagrario.  Why!  If  they  haven't  forgotten  the 
canary ! 

Sister  Marcella.  Poor  thing!  How  do  you  like  to 
be  left  in  this  nest  of  silly  women,  little  fellow?  Let's 
open  the  cage. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.    What  for? 


1      Sis' 
his  lii 


20  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [JCT  /] 

Sister  Marcella.  So  that  he  can  fly  away,  silly,  if  he 
wants  to. 

Sister  Sagrario.    No,  no! 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  Our  Mother  wouldn't  like 
that. 

Sister  Marcella.  He  would  like  it,  though.  Come 
on!  [She  opens  the  door  of  the  cageJ\  Fly  out,  sweet- 
heart!    Fly  away,  the  world  is  yours.     You  are  free! 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.     He  doesn't  fly  out. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.     He  doesn't  budge. 

Sister  Marcella.  Stupid,  don't  you  see  what  a  bright, 
sunny  day  it  is? 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.     They  say  canaries  are 
^^.Jiwn  in  cages  and,  see,  now  he  doesn't  care  to  fly  away. 
'       Sister   Maria   Jesus.     He'd   rather  stay  shut   up   all 
ife  like  us  nuns. 

Sister  Marcella.  Then  you're  a  great  fool,  birdie. 
[She  shuts  the  door  of  the  cage.l  God  made  the  air  for 
wings  and  He  made  wings  to  fly  with.  While  he  might 
be  soaring  away  above  the  clouds,  he  is  satisfied  to  stay  here 
all  day  shut  up  in  his  cage,  hopping  between  two  sticks  and 
a  leaf  of  lettuce!  What  sense  is  there  in  a  bird?  Ay, 
Mother!     And  what  wouldn't  I  give  to  be  a  bird! 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Yes!  What  wouldn't 
you  give  to  be  a  bird? 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  They  say  that  the  swallows  fly 
away  every  year  over  the  ocean,  and  nobody  knows  where 
they  go. 

Sister  Sagrario.  I  often  dream  that  I  am  flying  in 
the  night  time — that  is  not  flying,  but  floating — just  float- 
ing in  the  air  without  wings. 

Sister  Sagrario.  I  often  dream  that  I  am  running 
fast — oh  so  fast! — and  that  I  am  skipping  down  stairs, 
without  ever  touching  my  feet  to  the  ground,  or  to  the 
stairs. 

Sister  Sagrario.     Isn't  it  nice,  though?    And  how  dis- 


[ACT  /]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  ai 

appointed  you  are  when  you  wake  up  and  find  out  after 
all  that  it  isn't  so,  that  it  was  only  a  dream! 

Sister  Marcella.  I  have  dreamed  that  dream  so  many 
times,  that  now  when  I  wake  up,  I  hardly  know  whether 
it  is  the  truth  or  a  dream. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  What  do  you  suppose  it 
is  that  makes  you  dream  the  same  dream  so  many  times? 

Sister  Marcella.  I  don't  know,  unless  it  is  because  it 
is  the  things  you  want  to  do,  and  you  can't,  and  so  you 
do  them  in  dreams. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  What  nice  things  you  want  to 
do! 

Sister  Sagrario.  But  then  what  good  would  it  be  if 
you  could  do  them?  For  instance,  if  we  had  wings  like 
birds,  where  would  we  fly? 

Sister  Marcella.  I?  I  would  fly  to  the  end  of  the 
world ! 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  I?  To  the  Holy  Land,  to 
Mount  Calvary! 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Ckoss.  I  would  fly  to  Bethle- 
hem and  to  the  garden  of  Nazareth,  where  the  Virgin  lived 
with  the  child. 

Sister  Sagrario.  How  do  you  know  that  there  is  a 
garden  at  Nazareth? 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Of  course  there's  a  gar- 
den there,  with  a  brook  running  by  it.  The  song  says 
so: 

"The  Virgin  washed  his  garments 

And  hung  them  on  the  rose. 
The  little  angels  sing 

And  the  water  onward  flows"  .  .  . 

[Simply.^  There  was  a  garden,  too,  by  our  house  in  the 
village,  with  a  big  rosebush  on  the  border  of  a  brook  that 
ran  by  it;  and  I  used  to  kneel  beside  the  brook,  and  sing 


22  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  /] 

that  song  while  I  washed  my  baby  brother's  clothes,  for 
there  were  seven  of  us  children,  and  I  was  the  oldest. 
[Feelingly.]  And  that's  what  I  miss  most!  [Drying  her 
eyes  with  her  hands.}  Ay,  Mother!  And  I  always  cry 
when  I  think  of  that  baby  boy!  But  it  isn't  right,  I  know 
.  .  .  He  loved  me  more  than  he  did  mother,  and  the 
day  that  they  took  me  away  to  the  Convent,  and  I  left 
home,  he  cried — he  cried  so  that  he  nearly  broke  his  little 
baby  heart! 

Sister  Marcella.  I  have  a  brother  and  a  sister,  but 
they  are  both  older  than  I  am.  My  sister  married  two 
years  ago,  and  now  she  has  a  baby.  [With  an  air  of  im- 
portance.]    She  brought  him  here  once  to  show  me. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  [Interrupting  her, 
greatly  interested.]  I  remember.  He  stuck  his  little  hand 
in  through  the  grille  and  your  sister  kissed  it.  Did  you 
ever  think  how  soft  babies'  hands  are?  Whenever  I  take 
communion  I  try  to  think  I  am  receiving  our  Lord  as  a 
little  child,  and  I  take  and  press  him  like  this  to  my  heart, 
and  then  it  seems  to  me  that  he  is  so  little  and  so  helpless 
that  he  can't  refuse  me  anything.  And  then  I  think  that 
he  is  crying,  and  I  pray  to  the  Virgin  to  come  and  help 
me  quiet  him.  And  if  I  wasn't  ashamed,  because  I  know 
you  would  all  laugh  at  me,  I'd  croon  to  him  then,  and 
rock  him  to  sleep,  and  sing  him  baby  songs. 
[The  bell  rings  by  the  grille.] 

Sister  Sagrario.     The  bell!     I  wonder  who  it  is? 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Better  ask.  That's 
why  they  left  us  here. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  Who'll  do  it?  I  won't.  I'm 
afraid. 

Sister  Sagrario.    So  am  I. 

Sister  Marcella.  You're  not  usually  so  bashful,  I  must 
say.  I'll  ask,  though  I  was  the  last  to  enter  the  house. 
[Going  up  to  the  grille,  she  says  in  a  timid  voice:]  Ave 
Maria  purissimaf     [A  moment's  silence.]     No  one  answers. 


[JCT  /]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  23 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Try  again.  Say  it 
louder. 

Sister  Marcella.  [Raisinff  her  voice.']  Ave  Maria 
purissima! 

Sister  Sagrario.     Nothing  this  time,  either. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  [^Summoning  her  courage,  in  a 
high-pitched   voice.^     Ave   Maria    purissima! 

[Another  silence.     The  Novices  look  at  each  other 
in  surprise.} 

Sister  Marcella.     It  is  very  strange. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.     It  must  be  spirits. 

Sister  Sagrario.     Oh,  I'm  afraid! 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Nonsense!  It's  some 
little  boy  who  has  rung  the  bell  on  his  way  home  from 
school,   so   as   to  be  funny. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  Peep  through  the  hole  and  see  if 
anybody  is  there. 

Sister  Marcella.  [Stooping  down  to  look.]  No,  no- 
body. But  it  looks  as  if  there  was  something  on  the  wheel. 
Yes  .  .  . 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Let  me  see!  Yes  .  .  . 
Can't  you  turn  it?  [She  turns  the  wheel,  and  a  second 
basket  appears,  carefully  covered  with  a  white  cloth  like 
the  first.']     A  basket! 

Sister  Sagrario.     Another  present  for  our  ..lother. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  Of  course  it  is!  And  here's  a 
paper  tied  fast  to  it. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  [Reading,  but  without 
unfolding  the  paper.]     "For  the  Mother  Prioress." 

Sister  Sagrario.     Didn't  I  tell  you? 

Sister  Marcella.  Somebody  wants  to  give  her  a  sur- 
prise. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  I  wonder  if  it's  Don 
Calixtus,  the  chaplain? 

Sister  Marcella.     Of  course  it  is,  child! 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.     Or  maybe  it's  the  Doctor. 


24  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  /] 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  No.  He  was  just  here 
and  he  didn't  say  anything  about  it. 

Sister  Sagrario.  All  the  same  it  might  be  from  him. 
Maybe  he  wants  to  keep  it  a  secret. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.     Let's  take  it  off  the  wheel. 

Sister  Marcella.  [Lifting  and  carrying  it  to  the 
tableJ]  We'd  better  put  it  here  by  the  canary.  My! 
Btit  it's  heavy! 

Sister   Sagrario.     I  wonder  what  it  is? 

Sister  Marcella.     Lets  lift  the  corner  and  see. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.     No,  for  curiosity  is  a  sin. 

Sister  Marcella.  What  of  it?  Come  on!  Let's  do 
it.  Who  will  ever  know?  [She  lifts  the  corner  of  the 
cloth  a  little  and  starts  back  quickly  with  a  sharp  cryJ] 
Ay!! 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  [Hurrying  to  look.l 
Jesus! 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.     Ave  Maria!     [Looking  too.'] 

Sister  Sagrario.     [Following.]     God  bless  us! 

[The  Convent  is  aroused  at  the  cry  of  Sister  Mar- 
cella. Presently  The  Prioress,  The  Vicaress,  The 
Mistress  of  Novices  and  the  other  Nuns  enter  from 
different  directions.] 

Prioress.    What  is  the  matter?    Who  called  out? 

ViCARESS.     Who  gave  that  shout? 

Mistress  of  Novices.  Is  anything  wrong?  [The  four 
NoviceSj  trembling,  stand  with  their  hacks  to  the  basket,, 
their  bodies  hiding  it  completely.] 

ViCARESS.     It  is  easy  to  see  it  was  Sister  Marcella. 

Prioress.  What  has  happened?  Speak!  Why  are 
you  all  standing  in  a  row  like  statutes? 

Mistress  of  Novices.     Has  anything  happened  to  you? 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  No,  reverend  Mother, 
not  to  us;  but 

Sister  MARfA  Jesus.     No,  reverend  Mother;  it's  .  .  . 

Sister  Marcella.  Someone  rang  the  bell  by  the 
wheel  .  .  .  and    we    looked  .  .  .  and    there   was    nobody 


[ACT  /]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  25 

there  .  .  .  and  they  left  a  basket  .  .  .  this  basket  .  .  .  and 
.  .  .  and  your  sister  had  the  curiosity  to  undo  it  .  .  . 

ViCARESS.     Naturally,   you  couldn't  do  otherwise. 

SiSTERi   Marcella,    And    it's  .  «  . 

Prioress.    Well?    What  is  it? 

Sister  Marcella.  It's  ...  I  ...  I  think  it  would 
be  better  for  your  Reverence  to  look  yourself. 

Prioress.  By  all  means!  Let  me  see.  [She  goes  up 
to  the  basket  and  uncovers  rV.]  Ave  Maria!  [In  a  hoarse 
whisper.^     A  baby! 

All.  [Variously  affected.}  A  baby?  [The  Vicaress, 
horrified,  crosses  herself.} 

Prioress.  [Falling  back.}  Your  Reverences  may  see 
for  yourselves.  [The  Nuns  hurry  up  to  the  basket  and  sur- 
round it.} 

Vicaress.  Ave  Maria/  How  can  such  an  insignifi- 
cant object  be  so  pink? 

Mistress  of  Novices.     It's  asleep. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  See  it  open  its  little 
hands! 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  Wliy!  It  has  hair  under  the 
edge  of  its  cap! 

Sister  Sagrario.     It  is  like  an  angel! 

Vicaress.     A  pretty  angel  for  the  Lord  to  send  us. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  [As  if  she  had  been 
personally  offended.}  Ay,  Mother  Vicaress!  You  mustn't 
say  that. 

Prioress.  [Tenderly.}  Where  do  you  come  from,  little 
one? 

Vicaress.     From  some  nice  place,  you  may  be  sure. 

Prioress.  Who  can  tell,  Mother?  There  is  so  much 
poverty  in  the  world,  so  much  distress. 

Vicaress.     There  is  so  much  vice,  reverend  Mother. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  You  say  that  there  was  nobody 
at  the  grille? 

Sister  Marcella.  Nobody;  no,  Mother.  The  bell 
rang;  we  answered  .  .  .  but  there  was  nobody  there. 


26  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  I] 

Sister  Sagrario.  [Picking  up  the  paper  which  has 
fallen  on  the  floorJ]     Here  is  a  paper  which  came  with  it. 

Prioress.  [Taking  the  paper  J]  "For  the  Mother  Pri- 
oress." 

ViCARESS.     An  appropriate  present  for  your  Reverence. 

Prioress.    Yes,  it  is  a  letter. 

[She  unfolds  the  paper  and  begins  to  readJ\ 
"Reverend  Mother: 

Forgive  the  liberty  which  a  poor  woman  takes,  trusting 
in  your  Grace's  charity,  of  leaving  at  the  grille  this  new- 
bom  babe.  I,  my  lady,  am  one  of  those  they  call  women 
of  the  street,  and  I  assure  you  I  am  sorry  for  it;  but  this 
is  the  world,  and  you  can't  turn  your  back  on  it,  and  it 
costs  as  much  to  go  down  as  it  does  to  go  up,  and  that  is 
what  I  am  writing  to  tell  you,  my  lady.  The  truth  is 
this  little  girl  hasn't  any  father,  that  is  to  say  it  is  the 
same  as  if  she  didn't  have  any,  and  I — who  am  her  mother 
— I  leave  her  here,  although  it  costs  me  something  to  leave 
her;  for  although  one  is  what  one  is,  one  isn't  all  bad, 
and  I  love  her  as  much  as  any  mother  loves  her  baby, 
though  she  is  the  best  lady  in  the  land.  But  all  the  same, 
though  she  came  into  this  world  without  being  wanted  by 
anyone,  she  doesn't  deserve  to  be  the  daughter  of  the  woman 
she  is,  above  all,  my  lady,  of  her  father,  and  I  don't  want 
her  to  have  to  blush  for  having  been  born  the  way  she  was, 
nor  for  having  the  mother  she  has,  and  to  tell  it  to  me  to 
my  face,  and  I  pray  you  by  everj'thing  you  hold  dear,  my 
lady,  that  you  will  protect  her  and  keep  her  with  you  in 
this  holy  house,  and  you  won't  send  her  to  some  orphanage 
or  asylum,  for  I  was  brought  up  there  myself,  and  I  know 
what  happens  in  them,  although  the  sisters  are  kind — ^yes, 
they  are — and  have  pity.  And  some  day,  when  she  grows 
up  and  she  asks  for  her  mother,  you  must  tell  her  that 
the  devil  has  carried  her  away,  and  I  ask  your  pardon,  for 
I  must  never  ^how  myself  to  her,  nor  see  her  again,  nor 
give  you  any  care  nor  trouble,  so  you  can  do  this  good 
work  in  peace,  if  you  will  do  it,  for  I  implore  you  again, 


[ACT  7]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  27 

my  lady,  that  you  will  do  it  for  the  memory  of  your  own 
dear  mother,  and  God  will  reward  you,  and  she  will  live 
in  peace,  and  grow  up  as  God  wills,  for  what  the  eyes  have 
not  seen  the  heart  cannot  understand,  my  lady." 

ViCARESS.     Bless  us!     Ave  Maria/ 

Mistress  of  Novices.     Poor  woman! 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Baby  dear!  Darling 
baby! 

ViCARElss.  What  pretty  mothers  the  Lord  selects  for  his 
children ! 

Prioress.  God  moves  in  his  own  ways,  Sister.  God 
moves  in  his  own  ways. 

Sister  Inez.     Is  that  all  the  letter  says? 

Prioress.     What  more  could  it  say? 

[The  Doctor  and  Sister  Tornera  have  re-entered 
during  the  reading. "[ 

Doctor.     Exactly.     What  more  could  it  say? 

Prioress.     What  do  you  think,  Don  Jose? 

Doctor.  I  think  that  somebody  has  made  you  a  very 
handsome  present. 

Prioress.  But  what  are  we  going  to  do  with  it?  Be- 
cause I  .  .  .  -thisf  poor  woman  .  .  .  she  has  put  this  poor 
creature  into  our  hands,  and  I  would  protect  her  willingly, 
as  she  asks,  and  keep  her  here  with  us  .  .  . 

Novices.     Yes,  yes,  Mother!     Do!     Do! 

Mistress  of  Novices.     Silence! 

Prioress.  But  I  don't  know  if  we  can  .  .  .  that  is,  if 
it  is  right,  if  it  is  according  to  law  .  .  .  for,  when  we 
enter  this  holy  rule,  we  renounce  all  our  rights  .  .  .  and  to 
adopt  a  child  legally  ...  I  don't  know  whether  it  can  be 
done.     How  does  it  seem  to  you? 

Doctor.  I  agree  with  you.  Legally,  you  have  no  right 
to  maternity. 

Vicaress.  And  even  if  we  had,  would  it  be  proper  for 
our  children  to  be  the  offspring  of  ignominy  and  sin? 

Prioress.  I  would  not  raise  that  question,  reverend 
Mother,  for  the  child  is  not  responsible  for  the  sin  in  which 


28  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  I] 

she  was  born,  and  her  mother,  in  renouncing  her  mother- 
hood, has  bitterly  paid  the  penalty. 

ViCARESS.     Yes,  it  didn't  cost  her  much  to  renounce  it. 

Prioress.     Do  we  know,  Mother?     Do  we  know? 

ViCARESS.  We  can  guess.  It  is  easy  enough  to  go 
scattering  children  about  the  world  if  all  you  have  to  do 
is  leave  them  to  be  picked  up  afterwards  by  the  first  per- 
son who  happens  along. 

Doctor.  How  easy  it  is  might  be  a  matter  for  dis- 
cussion.    There  are  aspects  of  it  which  are  not  so  easy. 

Sister  Sagrario.     Oh!     She's  opened  her  mouth! 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  The  little  angel  is 
hungry. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.     She's  sucking  her  thumb! 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Make  her  take  her 
thumb  out  of  her  mouth.  She'll  swallow  too  much  and 
then  she'll  have  a  pain. 

Sister  Sagrario.     Don't  suck  you  fingers,  baby. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Isn't  she  good,  though? 
You  stop  her  playing,  and  she  doesn't  cry. 

Prioress.  There  is  another  thing  we  must  consider. 
What  are  we  to  do  for  a  nurse? 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  The  gardener's  wife 
has  a  little  boy  she  is  nursing  now. 

Prioress.  In  that  case  I  hardly  think  she  would  care 
to  be  responsible  for  two. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  But  it  won't  be  any 
trouble — she's  so  tiny!  Besides,  we  can  help  her  out  with 
cow's  milk  and  a  little  pap.  The  milk  will  keep  on  the 
ice  and  we  can  clear  it  with  a  dash  of  tea. 

Doctor.  It  is  easy  to  see  Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross 
has  had  experience  with  children. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Your  handmaid  has  six 
little  brothers  and  sisters.  Ah,  reverend  Mother!  Give 
her  to  me  to  take  care  of  and  then  you  will  see  how  strong 
she'll  grow  up. 

ViCARESS.     Nothing   else   was   needed   to   complete   the 


[ACT  /]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  29 

demoralization  of  the  Novices.  You  can  see  for  your- 
selves how  naturally  they  take  to  this  dissipation. 

Prioress.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  frankly  what  you  think 
— all  of  you.      [All  speak  at  once.^ 

Mistress  of  Novices.  Your  Sister  thinks,  reverend 
Mother  .  .  . 

Sister  Tornera.     Your  handmaid  .  .  . 

Sister  Inez.     It  seems  to  me  .  .  . 

Prioress.     [Smiling.]     But  one  at  a  time. 

Sister  Tornera.  It  is  an  angel  which  the  Lord  has 
sent  us,  and  your  Sister  thinks  that  we  ought  to  receive  her 
like  an  angel,  with  open  arms. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  Of  course  we  ought.  Suppose, 
your  Reverences,  it  hadn't  been  a  little  girl,  but  ...  I 
don't  know — some  poor  animal,  a  dog,  a  cat,  or  a  dove, 
like  the  one  which  flew  in  here  two  years  ago  and  fell 
wounded  in  the  garden  trying  to  get  away  from  those 
butchers  at  the  pigeon-traps.  Wouldn't  we  have  taken 
it  in?  Wouldn't  we  have  cared  for  it?  And  wouldn't 
it  have  lived  happy  forever  afterward  in  its  cage?  And 
how  can  we  do  less  for  a  creature  with  a  soul  than  for  a 
bird? 

Sister  Tornera.    We  must  have  charity. 

Vicaress.  I  am  glad  the  Mother  Mistress  of  Novices 
has  brought  up  the  incident  of  that  bird,  for  it  will  absolve 
me  from  bringing  it  up,  as  it  might  seem,  with  some  malice. 
It  was  against  my  advice  that  that  creature  was  received 
into  this  house,  and  afterward  we  had  good  reason  to  re- 
gret it,  with  this  one  saying  "Yes,  I  caught  him!"  and  that 
one,  "No,  I  took  care  of  him!"  and  another  "He  opens 
his  beak  whenever  I  pass  by!"  and  another,  "See  him  flap 
his  wings!  He  does  it  at  me!" — vanities,  sophistries,  de- 
ceits all  of  them,  snares  of  the  devil  continually!  And  if 
all  this  fuss  was  about  a  bird,  what  will  happen  to  us  with 
a  child  in  the  house?  This  one  will  have  to  dress  it,  that 
one  will  have  to  wash  it,  another  will  be  boasting,  "It  is 
looking  at  me!"  another  that  it's  at  her  that  it  googles 


30  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  /] 

most  .  .  .  There  is  Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross  making 
faces  at  it  already! 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  What  did  your  Rever- 
ence say? 

ViCARESS.  Dissipation  and  more  dissipation!  Your 
Reverences  should  remember  that  when  we  passed  be- 
hind these  bars,  we  renounced  forever  all  personal,  all 
selfish  affection. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  Is  it  selfish  to  give  a  poor  foun- 
dling a  little  love? 

ViCARESS.  It  is  for  us.  Our  God  is  a  jealous  God. 
The  Scriptures  tell  us  so. 

Mistress  of  Novices.     Bless  us!       Mercy  me! 

ViCARESS.  And  this  quite  apart  from  other  infractions 
of  our  order  which  such  indulgence  must  involve.  For 
example,  your  Reverences — and  I  among  the  first — take  no 
account  of  the  fact  that  it  this  very  moment  we  are  trans- 
gressing our  rule.  We  are  conversing  with  our  faces  un- 
veiled  in  the  presence  of  a  man. 

Prioress.    That  is  true. 

Doctor.  Ladies,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned — ^Take  no 
account  of  me.  .  .  . 

Prioress.  No,  Doctor,  you  are  of  no  account.  I  beg 
your  pardon,  Don  Jose;  I  hardly  know  what  I  am  say- 
ing.— Your  Reverence  is  right.  Cover  yourselves — that 
is,  it  makes  no  difference  .  .  .  The  harm  has  been 
done  .  .  .  only  once.  .  .  .  But  comply  with  your  cor>- 
sciences  .  .  .  [The  Vicaress  covers  her  face.  The  others, 
hesitating,  wait  for  the  Prioress^  who  makes  a  movement 
to  do  so,  but  then  desists.  The  Vicaress^  when  she  is 
covered,  cannot  see  that  she  has  become  the  victim  of  the 
rest.^  But  where  were  we?  I  confess  that  my  heart 
prompts  me  to  keep  the  child. 

Vicaress.  The  Doctor  already  has  told  us  that  we  have 
no  right  to  maternity. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  But  the  child  is  God's  child, 
and  she  is  returning  to  her  father's  mansion. 


[ACT  I]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  31 

ViCARESS.  God  has  other  mansions  for  his  abandoned 
children. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Don't  send  her  to  the 
asylum ! 

Sister  Sagrario.     No! 

Prioress.     Her  mother  entreats  us. 

ViCARESS.  Her  mother  is  not  her  mother.  She  has 
abandoned  her. 

Prioress.  She  has  not  abandoned  her.  She  has  en- 
trusted her  to  others  who  seemed  worthier  to  undertake  her 
keeping. 

ViCARESS.     Unholy  egotism! 

Mistress  of  Novices.     Christian  heroism! 

ViCARESS.  So?  We  are  coining  phrases,  are  we?  Is 
this  a  convent,  or  an  illustrated  weekly? 

Mistress  of  Novices.  Life  is  hard  to  some  people, 
and  thorny. 

ViCARESS.  Yes,  and  into  the  details  of  it,  it  is  not  be- 
coming for  us  to  go,  since  by  the  grace  of  God  we  have 
been  relieved  from  the  temptations  and  the  frailties  of  the 
world. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  All  the  more,  then,  we  ought 
to  have  compassion  on  those  who  have  fallen  and  are  down. 

ViCARESS.     Compassion?     Mush  and  sentiment! 

Mistress  of  Novices.    The  veil  of  charity! 

Prioress.  Silence!  And  let  us  not  begin  by  rending 
it,  irritating  ourselves  and  aggravating  each  other. — Don 
Jose,  I  suppose  this  birth  will  have  to  be  reported? 

Doctor.     It  will,  madam.     To  the  Register. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  But  then  they  will  take 
her  away? 

Doctor.  If  nobody  wants  her.  But  if  you  have  made 
up  your  minds  you  would  like  to  keep  her,  I  think  I  can 
propose  a  solution. 

Prioress.    A  solution  that  is  legal? 

Doctor.  Perfectly.  Thanks  be  to  God  I  am  a  single 
man.     But,  although  I  am  not  a  saint,  yet  I  cannot  take 


32  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  I] 

to  myself  the  credit  of  having  augmented  the  population 
of  this  country  by  so  much  as  a  single  soul.  I  have  not  a 
penny,  that  is  true,  but  like  everybody  else,  I  have  a  couple 
of  family  names.  They  are  at  the  service  of  this  little 
stranger,  if  they  will  be  of  use  to  her.  She  will  have  no 
father  and  no  mother — I  cannot  help  that — but  she  will 
have  an  honorable  name. 

Prioress.     Do  you  mean  to  say? 

Doctor.  That  I  am  willing  to  adopt  her;  exactly — 
and  to  entrust  her  to  your  care,  because  my  own  house  .  .  . 
The  fact  is  the  hands  of  Doiia  Cecilia  are  a  little  rough 
for  handling  these  tiny  Dresden  dolls,  and  perhaps  I  might 
prove  a  bit  testy  myself.  The  neighbors  all  say  that  the 
air  grows  blue  if  my  coat  rubs  against  me  as  I  walk  down 
the  street. 

[All  laugh.'] 

Doctor.  Besides  I  am  sure  Sister  Crucifixion  is  better 
equipped  for  the  robing  of  saints. 

ViCARESS     Doctor,  God  help  us  both! 

Doctor.     Is  it  agreed? 

Prioress.  God  reward  you  for  it!  Yes,  in  spite  of 
everything.  We  shall  notify  the  Superior  immediately. 
It  is  not  necessary  that  the  child  should  live  in  the  cloister. 
She  can  remain  with  the  gardener's  wife  until  she  has 
grown  older,  and  enter  here  later  when  she  has  the  dis- 
cretion to  do  so.  She  has  been  entrusted  to  our  hands, 
and  it  is  our  duty  to  take  care  of  her — a  duty  of  con- 
science. 

Doctor.  If  I  cannot  be  of  further  service,  I  will  go. 
And  I  will  speak  to  the  Register. 

Prioress.  As  you  go,  be  so  kind  as  to  ask  the  gardener's 
wife  to  come  in.  We  must  see  if  she  will  take  charge 
of  the  child  and  nurse  her.  And  tell  her  also  to  bring 
with  her  some  of  her  little  boy's  clothes. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Yes,  for  we  shall  have 
to  make  a  change  immediately. 


[ACT  /]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  33 

Sister  Sagrario.    We  shall? 

ViCARESS.     Not  a  change,  but  a  beginning. 

Doctor.     Good  afternoon,  ladies. 

All.  Good  afternoon,  Don  Jose.  [The  Doctor  goes 
out.] 

[A  pause.] 

Prioress.  Sisters,  may  God  pardon  us  if  we  have  acted 
in  this  with  aught  but  the  greatest  purity  of  motive.  I 
hope  and  pray  that  His  grace  will  absolve  us  of  offense, 
nor  find  us  guilty  of  having  loved  too  much  one  of  His 
poop  children.  The  child  shall  be  brought  up  in  the  shadow 
of  this  house,  for  we  may  say  that  her  guardian  angel  has 
delivered  her  at  the  door.  From  this  hour  forth  we  are 
all  charged  with  the  salvation  of  her  soul.  The  Lord  has 
entrusted  to  us  an  angel  and  we  must  return  to  Him  a 
saint.     Watch  and  pray. 

All.    Watch   and   pray.     We   will,    reverend    Mother. 

Prioress.  And  now  bring  her  to  me,  Sister  Joanna  of 
the  Cross,  for  as  yet  it  can  scarcely  be  said  that  I  have 
seen  her.  [Looking  at  the  child.]  Lamb  of  God!  Sleep- 
ing as  quietly  in  her  basket  as  if  it  were  a  cradle  of  pure 
gold!  What  is  it  that  children  see  when  they  are  asleep 
that  brings  to  their  faces  an  expression  of  such  peace? 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  They  see  God  and  the 
Virgin  Mary. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  Maybe  the  angel  who  watches 
over  them  whispers  in  their  ears  and  tells  them  about 
heaven. 

Prioress.  Who  can  say?  But  it  is  a  comfort  to  the 
soul  to  see  a  child  asleep. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  It  makes  you  want  to  be  a  saint, 
reverend  Mother. 

Sister  Sagrario.  Will  your  Reverence  grant  me  per- 
mission to  give  her  a  kiss? 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  Oh,  no!  For  it  hasn't  been 
baptized  yet,  and  it  is  a  sin  to  kiss  a  heathen! 


34  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  I] 

Prioress.     She  is  right.    We  must  send  for  the  Chap- 
lain and  have  her  baptized  immediately. 

Mistress  of  Novices.     What  shall  we  call  her? 
Sister  Inez.     Teresa,  after  our  beloved  Mother. 
Sister  Tornera.     Maria  of  the  Miracles. 
Sister    Sagrario.     Bienvenida.     [A     large    bell    rings 
outside  J\ 

Prioress.    The  summons  to   the   choir!    We  can   de- 
cide later.     Let  us  go.     [The  Nuns  file  out  slowly,  looking 
at  the  child  as  they  go.'\     Remain  with  her,  Sister  Joanna 
of   'the    Cross — you    understand    children;    and    wait    for 
the  coming  of  the  gardener's  wife.     Follow  the  devotions 
from  wheref  you  are,  and  do  not  let  your  attention  falter. 
[All  the  Nuns  go  out,  except  Sister  Joanna  of 
THE   Cross^  who    bends   over   the   basket;   then   sinks 
on  her  knees  beside  it.     The  choir  is  heard  within,  led 
by  a  single  Nun  in  solo,  the  responses  being  made  in 
chorus,  in  which  SiSTER  Joanna  of  the  Cross  joins. 
While  the  NuN  is  leading.  Sister  Joanna  of  the 
Cross  talks  and  plays  with  the  child;  then  she  makes 
her  responses  with  the  others.^ 
Voice  Within.     In  nomine  Patri  et  Filio  et  Spiritui 
Sancto.     [Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross  crosses  herself 
and  says  with  the  other  Nuns:] 

Voices  Within  and  Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross. 
Amen/ 

Sister    Joanna    of    the    Cross.     [To    the    child.] 
Pretty  one!     Pretty  one! 

Voice  Within.     Deus  in  adjutorium  meum  intende. 
Voices  Within  and  Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross. 
Domine  ad  adjuvandum  me  festina. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.     [To  the  child.]     Do 
you  love  me,  sweetheart?     Do  you  love  me? 

Voice  Within.     Gloria  Patri  et  Filio  et  Spiritui  Sancto. 

Voices  Within  in  Chorus.     Sicut  erat  in  principio  et 

nunc  et  semper  et  insecula  seculorum.     Amen!    Allelulial 


[JCT  I]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  35 

[But  this  time  Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross  makes 

no     response.     Instead    she    bends     over    the    basket, 

embracing  the  child  passionately ,  oblivious  of  all  else, 

and  says'.^i 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.    Little  one !    Little  one ! 

Whom  do  you  love? 

Curtain 


INTERLUDE 

Spoken  by  the  Poet 

You  came  tonight  to  listen  to  a  play; 
Instead  into  a  convent  you  made  way. 
Singular  hardihood!     Almost  profanation! 
What  will  a  poet  not  do  to  create  sensation? 
Pardon,  good  nuns,  him  who  disturbs  the  rest 
And  troubles  the  serene  quietude  of  your  nest, 
Kindling  amid  the  shades  of  this  chaste  bower 
The  flame  of  love  you  have  renounced  and  flower. 
Nay!     Do  not  frown  because  I  have  said  love, 
For  you  must  know,  chaste  brides  of  God  above, 
That  which  you  have  deemed  charity  and  pity, 
The  act  of  mercy,  clemency  for  the  pretty, 
Unfriended  foundling  fate  has  brought  along. 
Yearning  of  adoption  and  the  cradle  song. 
No  other  is  than  love's  fire,   divine  and  human 
Passion  ever  brooding  in  the  heart  of  woman. 

Ah,  love  of  woman,  by  whose  power  we  live, 
OfFend   so   often — but  to  see   forgive! 
Whence  do  you  draw  your  grace  but  from  above? 
Whence    simply?     Simply    from    maternal    love! 
Yes,  we  are  children,  woman,  in  your  arms; 
Your  heart  is  bread,  you  soothe  our  wild  alarms, 
Like  children  give  us  the  honey  of  your  breast, 
In  a  cradle  always  your  lover  sinks  to  rest 
Although  he  prostitutes  our  grovelling  flesh. 
Mother  if  lover,  mother  if  sister  too. 
Mother  by  pure  essence,  day  long  and  night  through, 
Mother  if  you  laugh,  or  if  with  us  you  cry, 

36 


THE  CRADLE  SONG  37 

In  the  core  of  being,  in  fibre  and  in  mesh, 
Every  woman  carries,  so  God  has  willed  on  high, 
A   baby   in   her  bosom,   sleeping   eternally! 

So  being  women,  you  are  lovers,  nuns; 

Despite  the  ceintured   diamond  which   runs 

Across  your  virgin  shields,  showing  in  your  lives 

How  to  be  mothers  without  being  wives. 

And  in  this  child  of  all,  you  have  poured  all 

The  honey  of  your  souls,  and  blended  all 

The  fire  of  the  sun,  all  fragrance  and  all  light, 

The  first  sweet  morning  kiss,  the  last  good-night, 

Till  all  her  being  tenderness  exhales. 

Her  heart  the  home  of  love  and  nightingales. 

A  hundred  times  a  woman  but  no  saint. 

The  nuns  pray  in  the  choir;  outside  her  plaint 

A  song;  her  prayer,  gay  rippling  laughter. 

Mass  and  the  May  morning  slip  by,  she  running  after 

Or  dreaming  in  the  garden.     The  roses  smell 

So  sweetly!     No  child   this   for   the  hermits'   cell. 

She  loves  Heaven,  but  in  good  company; 

And  before  the  altar  of  the  Virgin  see 

Her  with  a  boy,   ruddier  than  the  candle's  flame, 

Who  calls  her  "Sister,"  the  nuns  "Aunt"  for  name. 

A  smiling,  bashful  boy,  who  soon  will  grow 

To  be  a  strong  man,  learn  to  give  a  blow 

And  take  one,  conquer  worlds  and  redress  wrong. 

Justice  in  his  heart,  and  on  his  lips  a  song! 

Sometimes  she  takes  the  cat  up,  calls  it  "Dear!" 

The  nuns  cross  themselves,  religiously  severe. 

'The  child  is  mad,"  they  say.     Ah!     No  such  thing! 

With  her  into  the  convent  entered   Spring. 

This  then  the  simple  story.     The  poet  would 
Have  told  it  day  by  day,  if  well  he  could, 
In  shining  glory.     But  the  task  were  vain. 
The  glory  of  our  daily  lives  is  plain. 


38  THE  CRADLE  SONG 

For  life  builds  up  itself  in  such  a  way, 
The  water  runs  so  clear,  so  bright  the  day, 
That  time  is  lulled  to  sleep  within  these  walls. 
An  age  or  moment?     Which  passes?     Who  recalls? 
The  wheel  turns  round,  but  no  one  notes  the  turn. 
What  matter  if  the  sisters'  locks  that  burn 
With  gold,  in  time  to  silvery  gray  have  paled? 
Their  hoods  conceal  it.     And  the  pinks  have  failed 
In  the  cheeks,  and  the  lilies  on  the  brow. 
There  are  no  mirrors.     The  sisters  then  as  now 
May  walk  in  the  garden,  believe  it  still  is  May. 

Among  these  hours  which  softly  slip  away, 

This  timeless  time,  we  shyly  pause  at  that 

In  which  there  is  most  warmth,  the  concordat 

Of  youth  and  incense,  breaking  of  the  spring. 

The  years  have  passed,  the  child  is  ripening. 

The  curtain  rises  on  a  soul  in  flower. 

And  a  love  chapter  claims  us  for  an  hour. 

It  is  quiet  afternoon,  quiet  breeding; 

The  nuns  are  sewing  and  their  sister  reading: 


CHAPTER  II 

Parlor  of  a  Convent. 

At  the  rear,  a  grille  with  a  double  row  of  bars.  A 
curtain  of  dark  woolen  cloth  hangs  over  the  grille  and  inter- 
cepts the  view  of  the  outer  parlor,  to  which  visitors  are 
admitted.  This  is  without  decoration,  and  may  be  brightly 
illuminated  at  the  proper  moment  from  the  garden.  A 
number  of  oil  paintings  of  saints  hang  upon  the  walls — all 
of  them  very  old  and  showing  black  stains.  With  them 
a  carved  crucifix  or  large  black  wooden  cross.  A  small 
window  furnished  with  heavy  curtains,  which,  when  drawn, 
shut  off  the  light  completely,  is  cut  in  the  wall  of  the  inner 
parlor  on  either  side  of  the  grille,  high  up  toward  the 
ceiling.  A  pine  table,  a  carved  arm  chair,  two  other  arm 
chairs,  smaller  chairs  and  benches,  together  with  all  the 
materials  necessary  for  sewing. 

The  Prioress,  The  Mistress  of  Novices,  Sisters 
Inez  and  Tornera,  Sister  Sagrario,  Sister  Joanna  of 
THE  Cross,  Sister  Marcella,  Sister  Maria  Jesus  and 
the  other  Nuns  are  discovered  upon  the  rise  of  the  curtain. 
Only  The  Vicaress  is  absent.  All  are  seated,  sewing,  with 
the  exception  of  Sister  MARfA  Jesus,  who  stands  in  the 
centre,  to  the  left  of  The  Prioress's  chair,  reading.  A 
bride's  trousseau  is  spread  out  upon  the  table  and  chairs. 
It  is  embroidered  elaborately,  trimmed  with  lace  and  tied 
with  blue  silk  ribbons.  A  new  trunk  stands  against  the 
wall  on  the  right,  the  trays  being  distributed  about  the 
benches  and  upon  the  floor. 

Eighteen  years  have  passed.  It  must  be  remembered 
that  the  Nuns  have  changed  in  appearance,  and  those  who 
were  novices  have  now  professed  and  have  exchanged  the 
white  for  the  black  veil. 

39 


40  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  II] 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  [Reading  and  intoning.']  "The 
Treasury  of  Patience,  the  Meditations  of  an  Afflicted  Soul 
in  the  presence  of  it5  God." 

Sister  Marcella.     [Sighing.]     Ayl 
Sister  Maria  Jesus.     [Reading.]     "First  Meditation: 
The  Sorrows  of  an  Unhappy  Spirit,  Submerged  in  a  Sea 
of  Woe." 

[Outside,  Teresa's  voice  is  heard,  singing  gaily.] 
Teresa.       "Come   singing   and    bringing 
Flowers  from  the   field, 
Flowers  from  the  field, 
Sweet  gardens,   to  Mary. 
Flowers  you  must  yield 
For  Love's  sanctuary!" 
[The  reader  stops,  and,  smiling,  glances  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  window  through  which  the  voice  is  heard. 
The  other  Nuns  smile  also,  complacently.] 
Prioress.     [With  affected  severity.]     The  child  inter- 
rupts us  continually. 

Sister  Inez.     And  a  day  like  to-day! 
Sister    Joanna    of    the    Cross.     [Sympathetically.] 
She  sings  like  a  lark. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  [Indulgently.]  She  is  so 
young ! 

Sister  Marcella.    Ay.  Mother! 
Prioress.     Continue  reading,   Sister  Maria  Jesus. 
Sister   Maria   Jesus.     [Reading.]     "The   Sorrows  of 
an  Unhappy  Spirit,  Submerged  in  a  Sea  of  Woe.     My  God, 
O   my   God,   save   me,    for   every   moment   I   die!     Over- 
whelmed, I  sink  in  the  midst  of  this  terrible  storm.     Every 
moment   I    am   buffeted    and   borne   down.     I    am   sucked 
into  the  uttermost  depths,  and  there  is  no  health  in  me!" 
Teresa.     [Singing.] 

"From  the  glory  of  your  brightness, 

Radiantly  sweet, 
O,  let  me  stoop  and  bend  me 
To  kiss  your  feet! 


[JCT  II]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  41 

Let  me  stoop  and  bend  me 
To  kiss  your  feet!" 
[Again  the  reader  stops.     The  NuNS  smile  agedn.] 
Prioress.       Sister  Sagrario,  will  you  step  out  into  the 
garden  and  ask  the  child  not  to  sing?     We  are  reading. 

[Sister  Sagrario  goes  out,  right j  after  making  the 
customary   reverence.] 
Continue,  Sister,  continue. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.     [Reading.]     "There  is  no  health 
in  me.     I  cannot  support  myself;  I  cannot  resist  the  shock 
of   the   horrible   onrushing  waves." 
Teresa.     [Singing.] 

"You  too  were  happy,  Mary, 

Happy  in  his  love, 
Flowers  of  love  and  springtime 
That  bloom  above!" 
[The  song  is  broken  off  suddenly,  as  if  the  NuN  had 
arrived  and  commanded  Teresa  to  stop.     A  moment 
later,  there  is  a  sound  of  light  laughter.] 
Prioress.     It  cannot  be  helped.     [Smiling.]     The  child 
was  born  happy  and  she  will  die  so.     [To  the  reader.] 
Continue. 

Sister  Marcella.    Ay,  Lady  of  Sorrows! 
Prioress.     But  Sister  Marcella,  my  daughter,  why  do 
you  sigh  like  this?     Are  you  unwell? 

Sister  Marcella.  No,  reverend  Mother.  But  your 
daughter  has  temptations  to  melancholy. 

Prioress.  The  Lord  protect  and  keep  you.  You  know 
how  it  displeases  me  to  see  the  shadow  of  melancholy 
enter  this  house. 

Sister  Marcella.  [Making  a  reverence.]  Ay,  rev- 
erend Mother,  pardon  me  and  assign  me  some  penance  if 
I  sin,  but  your  daughter  cannot  help  it. 

Prioress.  Who  was  thinking  of* sin?  Go  out  into  the 
garden  and  take  a  little  sunshine,  daughter;  that  is  what 
you  need. 

Sister   Marcella.    Ay,   reverend   Mother,   you   don't 


42  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  II] 

know  what  you  say!  For  when  your  daughter  sees  the 
flowers  in  the  garden,  and  the  blue  sky  so  bright  above 
them,  and  the  sun  so  beautiful  overhead,  the  temptation 
comes  upon  her  then  to  sigh  more  than  ever.     Ay/ 

Prioress.  If  that  is  the  case,  return  to  your  seat  and 
let  us  pray  that  it  may  cease.  But  do  not  let  me  hear 
you  sigh  again,  for  I  do  not  wish  to  send  you  to  the  prison 
to  brighten  your  spirit  with  solitude  and  confinement. 

Sister  Marcella.  As  your  Reverence  desires.  [Re- 
turning to  her  seat.]  Ay,  my  soul !  [The  Prioress  raises 
her  eyes  to  heaven  in  resignation.] 

A  Nun.     Ay,  Blessed  Virgin! 

Another.     Ay,  Jesus/ 

Prioress.  [Somewhat  ruffled.]  What?  Is  this  an 
epidemic?  Nothing  is  wanting  now  but  that  we  should  be- 
gin to  sigh  in  chorus.  Remember,  it  is  with  gladness  and 
thanksgiving  that  the  Lord  is  to  be  served  ''in  hymnis  et 
canticis,"  for  the  second  of  the  fruits  of  the  Spirit  is  joy  and 
there  is  none  higher  but  love,  from  which  it  springs.  [A 
Pause.  Sister  Maria  Jesus  reopens  the  book,  and  with- 
out waiting  for  the  signal  from  the  Prioress,  resumes  read- 
ing.] 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  [Reading.]  "I  cannot  resist  the 
shock  of  the  horrible  onrushing  waves.  They  break  over 
me  unceasingly;  irresistibly  they  bear  me  down." 

Prioress.  Close  the  book.  Sister  Maria  Jesus,  for  the 
blessed  father  who  wrote  it,  alas,  he  too  was  of  a  melancholy 
turn  of  mind!  [Sister  MARfA  Jesus  closes  the  book,  makes 
a  reverence  and  sits  down  to  sew.  The  Mother  Vicaress 
appears  in  the  door  on  the  left,  accompanied  solemnly  by 
two  other  nuns.] 

Vicaress.     [Greatly  agitated.]     Ave  Maria  Purissimal 

Prioress.     Conceived  without  sin. 

Vicaress.     Have  I  permission,  reverend  Mother.' 

Prioress.  Enter  and  speak.  [Looking  at  her.]  If  I 
am  not  mistaken,  your  Reverence  is  greatly  disturbed. 


[ACT  II]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  43 

ViCARESS.  You  are  not  mistaken,  reverend  Mother.  No, 
and  I  dare  affirm  it  is  not  for  a  slight  reason.  Your 
Reverence  will  be  judge  if  this  is  the  time  and  place  to 
confront  with  a  charge  of  ipso  facto  a  member  of  this  com- 
munity. 

Prioress.  Speak,  if  the  knowledge  of  the  fault  in  public 
will  not  in  itself  constitute  a  scandal  and  a  cause  of  offense. 

ViCARESS.  In  the  opinion  of  your  handmaid  all  cause 
of  scandal  will  be  avoided  by  looking  the  offense  straight 
in  the  face. 

Prioress.     Speak  then. 

ViCARESS.  [Making  a  profound  inclination.]  I  obey. 
Reverend  Mother,  while  making  the  round  of  my  inspec- 
tion of  the  cells  with  these  two  monitors,  as  your  Reverence 
has  been  pleased  to  command  .  .  .  [The  two  Monitors 
each  make  a  reverence.]  And  coming  to  the  cell  of  Sister 
Marcella  .  .  .  [All  the  Nuns  look  at  Sister  Marcella, 
who  lowers  her  eyes.]  I  found  under  the  mattress  of  the 
bed — in  itself  a  suspicious  circumstance  and  sufficient  to 
constitute  a  sin — an  object  which  should  never  be  found 
in  the  hands  of  a  religious,  an  object  which,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  sin  against  the  rule  of  holy  poverty  which  the  pri- 
vate possession  and  concealment  of  any  property  whatever 
must  presuppose,  is  by  its  very  nature  a  root  of  perdition 
and  an  origin  and  source  of  evil. 

Prioress.  Conclude,  Mother,  in  God's  name!  For  you 
keep  us  in  suspense.     What  is  this  object? 

ViCARESS.  Disclose  it,  sister.  [To  one  of  the  Moni- 
tors.] 

[The  Monitor  makes  a  reverence,  and  draws  from 
her  sleeve  a  piece  of  glass,  covered  on  one  side  with 
quick-silver.] 

Prioress.     A  piece  of  looking-glass. 

ViCARESS.  Exactly,  a  piece  of  looking-glass!  [Hor- 
rified silence  on  the  part  of  the  community.] 

Prioress.     What  has  Sister  Marcella  to  say  to  this? 


44  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  II] 

Sister  Marcella.  {Leaving  her  place  and  kneeling 
before  the  Prioress.]  Mother,  I  confess  my  guilt  and  I 
beseech  your  pardon. 

Prioress.  Rise.  [Sister  Marcella  rises.]  Unhappy 
woman!     What  was  the  use  of  this  piece  of  glass? 

ViCARESS.  To  look  at  herself  in  it,  and  amuse  herself 
with  the  sight  of  her  beauty,  thus  offending  her  Maker  with 
pride  and  vain  glory,  and  the  exhibition  of  her  taste. 

Sister  Marcella.  [Humbly.]  No,  reverend  Mother; 
no! 

ViCARESS.  Or  else  to  dress  herself  up  and  fix  herself 
by  it,  and  make  faces  and  grimaces  such  as  they  do  on 
the  streets  in  these  days.  [The  Vicaress^  who  has  taken 
the  mirror,  looks  at  herself  in  it  for  a  moment,  then  turns 
it  hurriedly  away.] 

Sister  Marcella.     No,  reverend  Mother. 

Prioress.     For  what  then? 

Sister  Marcella.     For  nothing,  reverend  Mother. 

Prioress.    What?    For  nothing? 

Sister  Marcella.  Your  daughter  means  for  nothing 
evil.     On  the  contrary  .  .  . 

ViCARESS.  H'a!  Now  I  suppose  we  are  going  to  hear 
that  it  is  a  virtue  in  a  religious  to  have  a  glass! 

Sister  Marcella.  No,  reverend  Mother,  it  is  not  a 
virtue.  But  your  Reverences  know  already  that  your  Sister 
suffers  from   temptations  to  melancholy. 

ViCARESS.     Yes,  yes  .  .  . 

Sister  Marcella.  And  when  they  seize  upon  her  too 
strongly,  they  put  it  into  her  head  to  climb  trees  and  run 
along  the  tops  of  walls,  and  jump  over  the  fences  in  the 
garden,  and  to  throw  herself  into  the  water  of  the  foun- 
tain, and  since  your  Sister  knows  that,  in  a  religious,  these 
.  .  .  these  .  .  . 

ViCARESS.     These  extravagances. 

Sister  Marcella.  Are  unbecoming,  your  Sister  catches 
a  sunbeam  in  the  mirror  and  makes  it  dance  among  the 
leaves  and  across  the  ceiling  of  her  cell,  and  over  the  walls 


[ACT  II]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  45 

opposite,  and  so  she  consoles  herself  and  imagines  that  it 
is  a  butterfly  or  a  bird,  and  can  go  wherever  it  pleaseth. 

ViCARESS.     It  can,  and  stay  there. 

Prioress.  For  this  fault.  Sister  Marcella  .  .  .  [Sister 
Marcella  kneels.]  which,  without  being  a  grave  one, 
yet  is  more  than  a  little,  considered  according  to  the  con- 
stitution of  our  rule,  I  assign  you  this  penance.  Tonight, 
before  you  retire,  you  are  to  repeat  four  times  in  your  cell 
the  psalm  "Quam  d'tlecta."  Rise,  and  return  to  your  seat. 
[Sister  Marcella  obeys,  but  before  seating  herself  she 
makes  a  reverence  before  each  of  the  Nuns.]  [To  the 
ViCARESS.]  You  may  be  seated.  [The  Vicaress  and  the 
two  Monitors  seat  themselves.]  [Three  light  knocks  on 
the  door.     It  is  Teresa  who  says:] 

Teresa.     Ave  Maria  Purissimaf 

Prioress.     Conceived  without  sin. 

Teresa.    May  I  come  in? 

Prioress.  Come  in.  [Teresa  enters.  She  is  eighteen, 
very  pretty,  very  sunny  and  very  gay,  with  nothing  about 
her  to  suggest  the  mystic  or  the  religious.  She  is  dressed 
simply  in  gray  and  wears  a  white  apron.  She  has  a  flower 
in  her  hair,  which  is  arranged  modestly,  and  without  an 
excess  of  curls  or  ornament.]  Where  are  you  coming  from 
in  such  a  hurry?     You  are  all  out  of  breath. 

Teresa.  [Speaks  always  with  the  greatest  simplicity, 
without  affectation  or  pretense  of  any  sort.]  From  dress- 
ing the  altar  of  the  Virgin. 

Prioress.     Did  that  put  you  out  of  breath? 

Teresa.  No,  Mother.  It's  because  I  wanted  it  to  be 
all  in  white  to-day,  and  there  weren't  white  flowers  enough 
in  the  garden,  so  I  had  to  climb  up  and  cut  some  branches 
off  the  acacia. 

Mistress  of  Novices.     Did  you  climb  a  tree? 

Teresa.  Yes,  I  climbed  two;  there  weren't  enough 
blossoms  on  one. 

Mistress  of  Novices.    Jesusl 

Vicaress.    Ave  MariaJ 


46  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  II] 

Teresa.  I  wish  you  could  see  the  view  from  the  top 
of  the  big  acacia!  [Sister  Marcella's  eyes  open  wide 
with  envy.] 

ViCARESS.  Child,  you  have  put  yourself  beyond  the  pale 
of  God's  mercy! 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  You  might  have  fallen! 
It's  too  terrible  to  think  of! 

Teresa.  Fallen?  No,  Mother.  Why,  I've  climbed  it 
a  hundred  times! 

Prioress.    Then  you  must  not  do  it  again. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  [Regret fully.]  It  is  too  late  to 
forbid  her  now. 

Prioress.     [Sorrowfully.]     That  is  true. 

Sister  Inez.     It  is  the  last  day  she  will  dress  the  altar. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.    The  very  last/ 

Teresa.  Ah,  Mothers!  You  mustn't  talk  like  this. 
Don't  be  sad. 

ViCARESS.  No,  we  had  better  behave  like  you  do,  though 
it  doesn't  seem  possible  when  you  consider  the  day  that 
it  is,  and  you  laughing  and  carrying  on  like  one  possessed! 

Prioress.  The  Mother  is  right.  A  little  more  feeling 
to-day,  daughter,  a  manner  more  subdued,  would  not  have 
been  out  of  place. 

Teresa.  You  are  right,  reverend  Mothers — you  always 
are,  in  the  holiness,  which  like  a  halo  surrounds  your 
reverend  heads;  but  when  a  girl  wants  to  laugh  she  wants 
to  laugh,  although,  as  Mother  Anna  St.  Francis  says,  it 
may  be  the  solemnest  day  of  her  life. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  It  is  a  solemn  day,  a  very  solemn 
day.  You  are  leaving  this  house  in  which  you  have  passed 
eighteen  years,  without  scarcely  so  much  as  taking  thought 
how  it  was  you  came  to  be  here.  Tomorrow,  you  will  be 
your  own  mistress,  and  you  will  have  upon  your  conscience 
the  responsibilities  of  a  wife. 

ViCARESS.  Which  believe  me,  are  not  light.  Men  are 
selfish,  fickle  .  .  . 

Teresa.     [Timidly.]     Antonio  is  very  good. 


[ACT  II]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  47 

ViCARESS.  However  good  he  may  be,  he  is  a  man,  and 
men  are  accustomed  to  command.  They  have  been  from 
the  beginning  of  the  v^^orld,  and  it  has  affected  their  char- 
acter. And  since  you  are  very  independent  yourself,  and 
like  to  have  your  own  way  .  .  . 

Teresa.  Yes,  I  have  been  spoiled  I  know;  but  you  will 
see  now  how  good  I  will  be.     It  will  come  out  all  right. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Do  you  want  to  spoil  the 
day  for  her? 

Teresa.  No,  Mother — no;  you  won't  spoil  it,  for  I 
am  very,  very  happy.     You  have  all  been  so  good  to  me! 

ViCARESS.     Nonsense!     No  such  thing. 

Teresa.  But  it  isn't  nonsense.  I  know  this  is  God's 
house,  but  you  might  have  closed  the  doors  to  me,  and  you 
have  flung  them  wide  open,  freely.  I  have  lived  here  eight- 
een years  and  in  all  this  time,  to  the  very  moment  that  I 
am  leaving  it,  you  have  never  once  reminded  me  that  I 
have  lived  here  on  your  charity. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.     Don't  say  such  things! 

Teresa.  Yes,  I  must  say  them.  On  your  charity,  on 
your  alms — like  a  poor  beggar  and  an  outcast.  I  don't 
mind  saying  it  nor  thinking  it,  for  I  have  been  so  happy 
here — yes,  I  am  happy  now — happier  than  the  daughter  of  a 
king :  for  I  love  you  all  so  much  that  I  want  to  kiss  even  the 
walls  and  hug  the  trees,  for  even  the  walls  and  the  trees 
have  been  kind  to  me.  This  has  been  the  Convent  of  my 
Heart! 

Sister  Marcella.  It  has  been  your  home.  If  you  had 
only  been  content  always  to  remain  in  it ! 

Prioress.  We  must  not  talk  like  this.  God  moves 
in  His  own  ways. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  And  in  all  of  them  His  children 
may  do  His  service. 

ViCARESS.  The  child  was  not  born  to  be  a  religious.  The 
things  of  the  world  appeal  to  her  too  strongly. 

Teresa.  It  is  true.  The  world  appeals  to  me — poor 
me!     It  seems  to  me  sometimes  as  if  everybody  loved  me, 


48  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  II] 

as  if  everything  was  calling  to  me  everywhere  to  come.  I 
have  been  so  happy  in  this  house,  and  yet,  all  the  time,  I 
have  been  thinking  how  great  the  world  was,  how  wonder- 
ful! Whenever  I  have  gone  out  into  the  street,  how  my 
heart  leaped!  I  felt  as  if  I  were  going  to  fly,  it  was  so 
light!  My  brain  was  in  a  whirl.  Then  I  was  so  glad  to 
come  back  again  into  this  house,  it  felt  so  good,  as  if  you 
were  all  taking  me  up  once  more  into  your  arms,  as  if  I 
had  fallen  to  sleep  in  them  again  and  was  warm,  folded  be- 
neath the  shelter  of  the  everlasting  wings. 

ViCARESS.  The  wings  of  your  good  angel,  who  stood 
waiting  at  the  door — stood  waiting  till  you  came. 

Prioress.  Why  should  he  have  to  wait?  Hfer  good 
angel  always  has  gone  with  her,  and  surely  there  never 
has  been  a  time  when  he  has  had  to  turn  away  his  face. 
Am  I  right,  daughter? 

Teresa.     You  are.  Mother.     [Sincerely.] 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  They  needn't  have  asked 
her  that! 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  [Rising.]  Here  are  the  bows  for 
the  corset  covers.     Do  you  want  them  pinned  or  sewed? 

Sister  Inez.     Sewed,  I  say. 

Sister  MARfA  Jesus.     Down  the  middle? 

Mistress  of  Novices.     Of  course,  down  the  middle. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  The  reason  I  asked  was  because 
in  the  pattern  they  are  all  fastened  down  the  side. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  [Bending  over  to  examine  the 
fashion  plates  with  Sister  Inez  and  Sister  Maria 
Jesus.]     Yes.     Don't  you  see?     She  is  right. 

Sister  Inez.  That's  funny!  But  they  are  pretty  that 
way. 

Mistress  of  Novices.     I  say  it's  absurd. 

Sister  MarIa  Jesus.  What  do  you  think,  Mother 
Crucifixion  ? 

Vicaress.  Don't  ask  me;  I  don't  think.  I  neither 
understand   nor   wish   to   understand   these   things — pomp 


[ACT  11]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  49 

and  vanity,  artifices  of  the  devil,  who,  they  tell  me,  is  very 
well  acquainted  with  the  dressmakers  of  Paris,  and  takes 
part  in  their  designs  and  encourages  their  abbreviations. 
Take  it  away,  take  that  paper  out  of  my  sight,  for  it  never 
should   have   entered   this  holy   house! 

Sister  Marcella.  Jy,  but  we  have  to  know  the 
fashions.   Mother! 

ViCARESS.  The  fashions!  The  fashions!  Go  to  hell 
and  you  will  find  the  fashions!  Any  other  place  would  be 
too  far  behind. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  But  you  don't  want  the  child  to 
be  married,  do  you,  in  the  dress  of  the  year  of  the  ark? 

ViCARESS.  A  pure  heart  and  an  upright  spirit  are  what 
she  should  be  married  in,  and  if  that  is  the  case,  no  one  is 
going  to  notice  whether  she  has  one  bow  more  or  less. 

Sister  Marcella.  They  say  men  pay  a  great  deal  of 
attention  to  such  things.  Mother  Crucifixion. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  And  we  must  render  unto  Caesar 
the  things  which  are  Caesar's,  and  unto  God  the  things 
which  are  God's. 

ViCARESS.  So!  We  have  philosophers,  have  we,  in  the 
house? 

Sister  Inez.  Hand  me  the  scissors,  if  you  will.  I 
want  to  cut  off  these  ends. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  I  think  now  everything 
is  ready  to  put  in  the  trunk. 

Prioress.  Yes,  for  the  carriage  will  be  waiting. 
[Teresa  kneels  on  the  floor  beside  the  trunk.  The  Nuns 
hand  her  the  various  articles  of  the  trousseau,  which  they 
remove  from  the  benches  and  the  table.] 

Sister  Inez.     Here  are  the  chemises. 

Sister   Marcella.    And   the   lace  petticoats. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Put  them  in  the  other 
tray,  so  they  won't  get  wrinkled. 

Sister  Inez.  Lord  of  Mercy!  What  a  tuck! —  What 
bungler  ran  this  tuck? 


50  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  11] 

Mistress  of  Novices.  You  must  not  say  anything 
against  the  sister  who  ran  it,  Sister;  say  it  would  look 
better  if  it  were  redampened  and  ironed. 

Teresa.  But  it  looks  splendidly;  really  it  does!  Give 
it  to  me!  Here — let  me  have  them.  This  is  too  ^nuch 
trouble  for  you  to  take. 

Prioress.     Have  you  everything? 

Sister  Marcella.     The  handkerchiefs? 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.    The  dressing-jackets? 

ViCARESS.  Here  is  some  edging  that  was  left  over,  em- 
broidered by  hand.  You  had  better  put  it  in  the  trunk  in 
case  of  accident. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  And  the  patterns — you  might 
need  them. 

Sister  Inez.  Here  is  a  sachet,  my  child.  It  is  filled 
with  thyme  and  lavender  and  has  lime  peel  in  it.  It  will 
give  a  fresh  scent  to  your  clothes. 

Sister  Marcella.  She'll  have  real  perfumes  soon 
enough. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.    Yes,  expensive  ones. 

Sister  Inez.  They  may  be  more  expensive,  but  they 
won't  be  any  better — I  can  tell  you  that;  for  these  are 
plants  that  God  has  made,  and  they  smell  sweetly,  and  of  a 
good  conscience.  I  have  them  in  all  the  presses  in  the 
sacristy,  and  it  is  a  joy  to  smell  them  when  you  go  up  the 
steps  to  the  altar. 

Teresa.     I  think  we  have  everything. 

Prioress.  Yes,  everything.  Now  turn  the  key.  Does 
it  lock  securely?  [Teresa  ffcts  up.'\  And  hang  the  key 
around  your  neck  with  the  rosaries,  for  we  have  fastened 
it  on  a  ribbon  for  you.  Take  care  you  don't  lose  it.  The 
lock  is  an  English  one,  and  not  every  key  will  open  it. 

Teresa.    Yes,  Mother. 

ViCARESS.     It  will  be  a  miracle  if  she  has  it  tomorrow. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  She  will  settle  down 
soon  under  the  responsibilities  of  a  wife. 

Mistress  of  Novices.    Well?    Are  you  satisfied? 


[ACT  11]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  51 

Teresa.  Satisfied  is  too  little,  Mother.  It  does  not 
express  it.     I  don't  deserve  what  you  have  done  for  me. 

ViCARESS.  Yes,  you  do ;  you  deserve  it.  And  you  might 
as  well  tell  the  truth  as  a  falsehood.  You  have  a  good 
heart;  you  are  a  sensible  girl.  When  you  said  what  you 
did,  you  were  thinking  of  your  clothes;  but  you  need  have 
no  scruples.  Everything  that  you  take  away  with  you 
from  this  house,  and  more  too,  you  have  earned  by  your 
labor.  That  is  the  truth  and  you  know  it.  Maybe  we 
have  taught  you  here  how  to  sew  and  embroider,  but  you  have 
worked  for  us  in  the  convent,  and  outside  of  it.  You  owe 
us  nothing.  Besides,  you  had  two  hundred  and  fifty  pesetas 
from  the  doctor  to  buy  the  material.  Here  .  .  .  [Pro- 
ducing a  paper  from  under  her  scapular.]  is  the  account  of  the 
way  they  have  been  spent,  so  you  can  see  for  yourself  and 
answer  for  it,  since  delicacy  will  not  permit  that  we  should 
be  asked  how  it  was  used. 

Teresa.  [Embarrassed  and  confused.]  What  do  you 
mean?     Why,  Mother  Crucifixion! 

ViCARESS.  That  is  all  there  is  to  it.  You  will  find  the 
account  is  correct.  [Teresa  fakes  the  paper  and  having 
folded  it,  puts  it  in  her  dress.] 

Prioress.  [To  the  Nuns  who  have  been  working.] 
You  may  remove  the  table  and  gather  up  these  things. 

Teresa.  No,  Mother — let  me  do  it.  I  will  pick  up 
everything.  [The  Prioress  makes  a  sign  and  all  the  Nuns 
rise  and  leave  the  room,  except  only  herself,  the  ViCARESS;, 
the  Mistress  of  Novices,  and  Sister  Joanna  of  the 
Cross.] 

Prioress.     [To  Teresa.]     What  time  do  you  go? 

Teresa.  My  father  is  coming  for  me  at  five,  but  .  .  . 
Antonio  has  asked  me  .  .  .  before  I  go  ...  to  say  that 
he  would  like  to  see  you  all  and  thank  you,  and  tell  you 
how  happy  and  grateful  he  is  to  you  for  the  little  girl  you 
have  brought  up. 

Prioress.    We  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  him. 

ViCARESS.     Glad  or  not  glad,  no  matter;  it  is  our  obliga- 


52  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  II] 

tion.     He  cannot  expect  to  carry  her  off  like  a  thief  in  the 
night,  and  have  no  woman  ask  a  question. 

Teresa.  I  will  call  you  when  he  comes.  [The  Pri- 
oress^ the  ViCARESs  and  the  Mistress  of  Novices  go 
out.] 

[Teresa  and  Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross  remain 
behind  picking  up  and  arranging  the  papers,  patterns  and 
scraps  that  have  been  left  on  the  seats  or  about  the 
floor.  They  say  nothing  but  presently  Teresa  throws 
herself  on  her  knees  before  the  NuN.] 

Teresa.     Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross! 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  What  do  you  want, 
my  child? 

Teresa.  Now  that  we  are  alone,  bless  me  while  there 
is  no  one  here  to  see — no,  not  one — for  you  are  my  mother, 
more  than  all  the  rest ! 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Get  up.  [Teresa  gets 
up.]  Don't  talk  like  that!  We  are  all  equal  in-  God's 
house. 

Teresa.  But  in  my  heart  you  are  the  first.  You 
mustn't  be  angry  at  what  I  say.  How  can  I  help  it? 
Is  it  my  fault,  though  I  have  struggled  against  it  all  my 
life,  that  I  have  come  to  love  you  so? 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Yes,  you  have  struggled. 
You  have  been  wilful  .  .  .  [Then  seeking  at  once  to  ex- 
cuse her.]  But  it  was  because  you  were  strong  and  well. 
When  a  child  is  silent  and  keeps  to  herself  in  a  corner,  it  is  a 
wgn  that  she  is  sick  or  thinking  of  some  evil.  But  you  .  .  . 
•  Teresa.  Ay,  Mother!  Where  do  you  suppose  that  I 
came  from? 

^-.-Sister   Joanna   of   the  Cross.    From   Heaven,   my 
daughter,  as  all  of  us  have  come. 

Teresa.  Do  you  really  think  that  we  have  all  come 
from  Heaven? 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  At  least  you  have  come 
from  Heaven  to  me.  You  say  that  I  am  your  mother 
more  than  the  rest;   I   don't  know — it  may  be.     But   I 


[ACT  11]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  53 

know  that  for  years  you  have  been  all  my  happiness  and 
joy. 

Te^iesa.     Mother! 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  I  was  so  glad  to  hear 
you  laugh  and  see  you  run  about  the  cloisters!  It  was 
absurd,  but  I  always  felt — not  now,  for  you  are  grown- 
up now — but  for  years  I  always  felt  as  if  you  must  be 
I,  myself,  scampering  and  playing.  For  I  was  just  your 
age  now,  a  little  more  or  less,  when  you  came  into  the 
Convent.  And  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  was  a  child  again 
and  had  just  begun  to  live.  You  were  so  little,  so  busy — 
yes,  you  were — but  I  was  busy  too,  if  you  only  knew,  before 
I  entered  here,  at  home  in  our  house  in  the  village.  I 
was  always  singing  and  dancing,  although  we  were  very 
poor.  My  mother  went  out  every  day  to  wash  in  the  river 
or  to  do  housework — she  had  so  many  children! — and  I 
was  always  carrying  one  about  in  my  arms.  And  when 
I  entered  here,  as  I  could  do,  thanks  to  some  good  ladies, 
who  collected  the  money  for  my  dowry — God  reward  them 
for  it — although  I  had  a  real  vocation,  I  was  sorrowful 
and  homesick  thinking  of  my  little  brothers  and  sisters! 
Hlow- 1  used  to  cry  in  the  dark  corners,  and  I  never  dared 
to  say  a  word!  Then  the  Mother  told  me  that  if  my 
melancholy  didn't  leave  me  she  would  be  obliged  to  send 
me  home.  And  then  you  came  and  I  forgot  everything! 
That  is  why  I  say  you  came  to  me  from  Heaven.  And 
I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  am  angry,  or  ashamed — or  that 
it  has  ever  given  me  a  moment's  pain  to  have  loved  you. 

Teresa.     Is  that  the  reason  that  you  scold  me  so? 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  When  have  I  ever 
scolded  you? 

Teresa.  Oh,  so  many  times!  But  no  matter.  I  al- 
ways tell  Antonio,  Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross  is  my  mother. 
She  is  my  mother,  my  real  mother!  So  now  he  always 
calls  you  mother  whenever  he  speaks  of  you. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  My  daughter,  will  you 
be  happy  with  him? 


54  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  II] 

Teresa.  Of  course !  I  am  sure  I  will.  He  is  so  good, 
he  is  so  happy!  He  says  he  doesn't  know  where  it  is  all 
his  happiness  comes  from,  because  his  father,  who  is  dead 
now,  was  more  mournful  than  a  willow,  and  his  mother, 
poor  lady,  whenever  anything  happened  to  her  that  was 
good,  burst  right  out  crying.  How  do  you  suppose  it  was 
she  ever  managed  to  have  such  a  boy?  It  must  be  that 
sad  mothers  have  happy  children.  How  does  it  seem  to 
you? 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.    How  do  I  know? 

Teresa.  It  must  be  that  way.  The  first  boy  I  have 
is  going  to  be — ^what  is  the  solemnest  thing  in  the  world? 
No,  the  first  is  going  to  be  an  architect,  like  his  father;  but 
the  second  can  be  a  missionary,  and  go  to  China  if  he  wants 
to,  and  convert  the  heathen.  Just  think  what  it  would  be 
to  have  a  son  who  was  a  saint!  I  shouldn't  have  to  be  so 
humble  in  heaven,  then,  should  I?  I  should  have  influ- 
ence. And  here  you  are  all  the  time.  Sister  Joanna  of  the 
Cross,  praying  for  me  and  preparing  miracles.  So  you  see 
I  have  a  good  start  already. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  How  you  do  love  to 
talk! 

Teresa.  Isn't  it  foolish,  Mother?  Don't  I?  Listen! 
When  you  were  little  didn't  you  ever  want  to  be  a  boy? 
I  did.  I  used  to  cry  because  I  thought  then  that  I  could 
have  been  anything  I  wanted  to  be — this,  that,  I  didn't 
care  what  it  was — Captain-General,  Archbishop,  yes,  Pope, 
even!  Or  something  else.  It  used  to  make  me  mad  to 
think  that  because  I  was  a  girl  I  couldn't  even  be  an 
acolyte.  But  now,  since — well,  since  I  love  Antonio,  and 
he  loves  me,  I  don't  care;  it  doesn't  make  any  difference 
any  more,  because  if  I  am  poor  and  know  nothing,  he  is 
wise  and  strong;  and  if  I  am  foolish  and  of  no  account, 
he  is,  oh,  of  so  much  worth !  And  if  I  have  to  stay  behind  at 
home  and  hide  myself  in  the  comer,  he  can  gcr  out  into 
the  world  and  mount,  oh,  so  high — wherever  a  man  can 
go — and  instead  of  making  me  envious,   it  makes  me  so 


[ACT  II]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  55 

happy!    Ah,  Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross,  when  she  truly 
loves  a  man,  how  humble  it  makes  a  girl ! 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Do  you  really  love  him 
so? 

Teresa.  More  than  life  itself!  And  that  is  all  too 
little.  Maybe  it's  a  sin,  but  I  can  tell  you.  Do  you  be- 
lieve that  we .  will  meet  in  Heaven  the  persons  we  have 
loved  on  earth?  Because  if  I  don't  meet  him  there  and  I 
can't  go  on  loving  him  always  just  the  same  as  I  do  now, 
no,  more  than  I  do  now  ... 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  [Interrupting.l 
Hush!  Peace!  You  mustn't  say  such  things.  It  is  a 
sin. 

Teresa.  Ay,  sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross!  How  sweet 
it  is  to  be  in  love! 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  But  he  .  .  .  he  .  .  . 
Does  he  love  you  too,  so  much? 

Teresa.  Yes,  he  loves  me.  How  much,  I  don't  know; 
but  it  doesn't  make  any  matter.  What  makes  me  happy 
is  that  I  love  him.  You  needn't  think  that  sometimes — 
very  seldom  though — I  haven't  been  afraid  that  perhaps 
some  day  he  might  stop  loving  me.  It  used  to  make  me 
sad.  But  if  I  had  ever  thought  that  some  day  I  could 
stop  loving  him  .  .  .  No,  it  would  be  better  to  die  first; 
for  then,  what  would  be  the  good  of  life? 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Crossi  Ah,  my  child!  To 
continue  in  God's  love! 

Teresa.  Do  you  know  how  I  would  like  to  spend  my 
life?  All  of  it?  Sitting  on  the  ground  at  his  feet,  look- 
ing up  into  his  eyes,  just  listening  to  him  talk.  You  don't 
know  how  he  can  talk.  He  knows  everything — everything 
that  there  is  to  know  in  the  world,  and  he  tells  you  such 
things!  The  things  that  you  always  have  known  yourself, 
in  your  heart,  and  you  couldn't  find  out  how  to  say  them. 
Even  when  he  doesn't  say  anything,  if  he  should  be  speak- 
ing some  language  which  you  didn't  understand,  it  is  won- 
derful ...  his  voice  ...  I   don't  know  how   to  explain 


56  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  i/] 

it,  but  it  is  his  voice — a  voice  that  seems  as  if  it  had  been 
talking  to  you  ever  since  the  day  you  were  born!  You 
don't  hear  it  only  with  your  ears,  but  with  your  whole 
body.  It's  like  the  air  which  you  see  and  breathe  and 
taste,  and  which  smells  so  sweetly  in  the  garden  beneath 
the  tree  of  paradise.  Ah,  Mother!  The  first  day  that 
he  said  to  me  "Teresa" — you  see  what  a  simple  thing  it 
was,  my  name,  Teresa — why,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  nobody 
ever  had  called  me  by  my  name  before,  as  if  I  never  had  heard 
it,  and  when  he  went  away,  I  ran  up  and  down  the  street 
saying  to  myself  "Teresa,  Teresa,  Teresa!"  under  my  breath, 
without  knowing  what  I  was  doing,  as  if  I  walked  on  air! 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  You  frighten  me,  my 
child. 

Teresa.     Do  I?    Why? 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Because  you  love  him 
so.  For  earthly  love  ...  I  mean  ...  it  seems  to  me  it 
is  like  a  flower,  that  we  find  by  the  side  of  the  road — 
a  little  brightness  that  God  grants  us  to  help  us  pass 
through  life,  for  we  are  weak  and  frail;  a  drop  of  honey 
spread  upon  our  bread  each  day,  which  we  should  receive 
gladly,  but  with  trembling,  and  keeping  our  hearts  whole, 
daughter,  for  it  will  surely  pass  away. 

Teresa.     It  cannot  pass  away! 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  It  may;  and  then  what 
will  be  left  to  your  soul,  if  you  have  set  your  all  on  this 
delight,  and  it  has  passed  away? 

Teresa.  [Humbly.'\  You  mustn't  be  angry  with  me, 
Mother.  No!  Look  at  me!  It  isn't  wrong,  I  know. 
Loving  him,  I  ...  he  is  so  good,  he  is  so  good  .  .  .  and 
good,  it  cannot  pass  away! 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.     Is  he  a  good  Christian? 

Teresa.     He  is  good.  Sister. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.     But  does  he  fear  God? 

Teresa.  One  day  he  said  to  me:  "I  love  you  because 
you  know  how  to  pray."  Don't  you  see?  And  another 
time:     "I  feel  a  devotion  toward  you  as  toward  some  holy 


[ACT  II]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  57 

thing."  He !  Devotion !  To  me !  And  whenever  I  think 
of  that,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  was  just  growing  better,  as 
if  all  at  once  I  was  capable  of  everything  there  was  to  do 
or  suffer  in  the  world — so  as  to  have  him  always  feel  that 
way ! 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  I  hear  some  one  in  the 
parlor.     Draw  the  curtains. 

[Teresa^  pulling  the  cord,  draws  the  curtains  over 
the  windows,  shutting  off  the  light.  The  fore  part  of 
ihe  stage  remains  in  shadow,  but  the  outer  parlor  is 
brightly  illuminated.  Antonio  has  entered  and  may 
be  seen  through  the  crack  where  the  curtains  join. 
He  is  twenty-five  years  of  age,  well-built,  manly  and 
sensitive  of  feature.  He  remains  alone  and  his  foot- 
steps may  be  heard  on  the  boards  as  he  paces  nervously 
up  and  down.] 
Teresa.  [In  a  low  Voice,  going  up  to  the  Nun.] 
Yes.     It  is  he. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  [Seizing  her  hand.] 
Ah!     How  tall  he  is! 

Teresa.  Yes,  he  is  tall.  Doesn't  he  look  splendidly 
though  ? 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Yes,  he  does.  Has  he 
golden  hair? 

Teresa.  No,  it's  the  light;  his  hair  is  dark  brown,  and 
his  eyes  are  between  violet  and  blue.  It's  too  bad  you 
can't  see  them.  They  are  so  beautiful!  When  he  talks, 
they  sparkle. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.    How  old  is  he? 
Teresa.     Just  twenty-five. 

[Antonio  crosses  from  one  side  to  the  other,  and 
continues  to  pace  back  and  forth.] 
Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.     He  seems  to  be  of  a 
very  active  disposition. 

Teresa.     That  is  because  he  is  impatient.     Shall  I  speak 
to  him  and  tell  him  you  are  here? 
Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.     [Falling  back.]     No! 


58  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  II] 

Teresa.  Why  not?  He  loves  you  dearly.  [In  a  low 
voice,  going  up  to  the  grille.]     Good  afternoon,  Antonio. 

Antonio.  [Looking  about  from  one  side  to  the  other.] 
Teresa?     Where  are  you? 

Teresa.  [Laughing.]  Here,  boy,  here;  behind  the 
grille.  It  is  easy  to  see  you  are  not  accustomed  to  calling 
on  nuns. 

Antonio.     Can't  you  run  back  the  curtain? 

Teresa.  No,  because  I  am  not  alone.  Can't  you  guess 
who  is  with  me?     My  mother. 

Antonio.     Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross? 

Teresa.  [To  the  Nun^  delighted  because  he  has  guessed 
it.]  There!  Do  you  see?  [To  Antonio.]  Sister 
Joanna  of  the  Cross — exactly.  We  have  been  watching  you 
through  the  grille,  and  she  says  that  she  thinks  you  are 
a  very  handsome  young  man. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  Goodness  gracious! 
You  mustn't  pay  any  attention  to  what  she  says. 

Teresa.     Don't  be  angry,  Mother.     I  think  so  myself. 

Antonio.    You  never  told  me  that  before. 

Teresa.  That  is  because  in  here,  where  you  can't  see 
me,  I'm  not  so  embarrassed  to  tell  you.  Listen !  We  have 
to  send  in  word  now  that  you  are  here;  but  I  want  you  tc) 
tell  my  mother  something  first,  for  if  you  stand  there  like 
a  blockhead  without  opening  your  mouth,  I  am  going  to  be 
very  much  ashamed,  after  all  the  time  I  have  spent  in 
singing  your  praises. 

Antonio.    What  do  you  want  me  to  tell  her? 

Teresa.     What  you  have  in  your  heart. 

Antonio.  But  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  proper  to 
tell  it  to  a  religious,  although  it  is  in  my  heart,  for  I  love 
her  dearly. 

Teresa.    Ah!     I  tell  her  that  a  million  times  a  day. 

Antonio.  Then  let  us  tell  her  together  two  million; 
because  I  must  say  to  you.  Madam,  that  it  is  impossible 
^to  know  Teresa  and  not  to  love  you. 

Teresa.    What  a  treasure  is  this  mother  of  mine! 


[JCT  II]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  59 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  For  shame,  my  child! 
{Blushing,  to  Antonio.]  I  also  have  a  great  affection  for 
you,  sir,  for  this  child  has  been  teaching  me  to  Ipve  you. 
She  is  a  little  blind  perhaps,  and  trusting,  for  that  is  nat- 
ural. She  knows  nothing  of  the  world,  and  we — how 
were  we  to  teach  her  ?  And  now  you  are  going  to  take  her 
far  away;  but  don't  take  her  heart  away  from  us,  sir,  and 
break  ours,  when  we  let  her  hand  go. 

Antonio.  Madam,  I  swear  to  you  now  that  I  shall 
always  kneel  in  reverence  before  the  tenderness  and  virtue 
which  you  have  planted  in  her  soul. 

Teresa.     I  told  you  that  he  was  very  good.  Mother. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  May  God  make  you 
both  very  happy.  And  may  God  remain  with  you,  for 
his  handmaid  must  go  now  and  seek  the  Mother. 

Antonio.    But  you  are  coming  back? 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.  With  the  sisters  .  .  . 
Yes,  I  think  so.  Good-bye.  I  have  been  so  happy  to  know 
you. 

[Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross  goes  out,  greatly 
moved.  Teresa  remains  standing  by  the  grille  until 
the  Nun  has  disappeared,  without  speaking  a  word.] 

Antonio.     Now  you  can  draw  back  the  curtain. 

Teresa.  Yes,  a  little.  [She  runs  back  the  curtain  a 
little  way.]  But  it  won't  do  you  any  good,  because  you 
won't  be  able  to  see  me.  Do  you  really  like  my  mother? 
Do  you  really?  Why  are  you  so  silent?  What  are  you 
thinking  about? 

Antonio.  I  don't  know;  It  is  very  strange.  Since  I 
have  come  into  this  room,  since  I  have  heard  your  mother 
speak,  and  have  heard  you,  behind  this  grille,  without 
knowing  for  certain  where  you  were  in  the  dark,  I  have 
been  almost  afraid  to  love  you.     But  ah — how  I  do  love 


you 


Teresa.     I  like  that  better. 
Antonio.     Teresa ! 
Teresa.    What  is  it? 


6o  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  II] 

Antonio.  Will  you  never  forget,  will  you  carry  with 
you  always  wherever  you  go,  this  peace  and  this  calm? 

Teresa.     With  you,  Antonio? 

Antonio.  Yes,  into  the  world,  beyond  these  walls;  for 
in  the  world  we  make  so  much  useless  noise.  And  you — I 
see  it  now — you  are  the  mistress  of  peace  and  of  calm. 

Teresa.  [Lauffhinff.}  I  the  mistress  of  calm?  As  if 
I  hadn't  been  a  little  flyaway  all  my  life,  without  an  idea 
in  my  head!  Mother  Crucifixion  says  that  since  I  was 
passed  in  on  the  wheel  there  hasn't  been  one  moment  in 
this  house  of  what  the  rules  call  "profound  calm."  I 
know  I  don't  talk  much  when  I  am  with  you — we  have 
been  together  such  a  little  while,  and  it  has  been  all  too 
short  to  listen  to  you;  but  you  will  see  when  I  grow 
bolder  and  am  not  afraid.  You  will  have  to  put  cotton  in 
your  ears  then.  Ah,  Antonio!  Only  think,  we  are  going 
to  have  all  our  lives  to  be  together  and  listen  to  each  other 
talk  and  tell  each  other  things — that  is,  all  our  lives  for 
you  to  tell  me  things,  because  I  .  .  .  you  will  find  out  soon 
enough.  Tell  me  really,  truly,  Antonio:  aren't  you  going 
to  be  awfully  ashamed  to  have  such  an  ignorant  wife? 

Antonio.     Ignorant  or  learned? 

Teresa.     I?     Learned?     In  what? 

Antonio.  In  a  science  which  I  did  not  know,  and 
which  you  have  taught  to  me. 

Teresa.     You  are  joking. 

Antonio.  I  am  in  earnest.  Until  I  met  you,  I  knew 
nothing;  I  did  not  even  know  myself. 

Teresa.     Pshaw! 

Antonio.  You  mustn't  laugh.  Did  it  ever  seem  to 
you,  Teresa,  that  our  soul  was  like  a  palace? 

Teresa.  Of  course  it  is!  It  is  like  a  castle.  Santa 
Teresa  says  so:  The  soul  is  like  a  castle — the  interior 
of  a  castle,  all  made  of  one  diamond  above  and  below. 
And  it  has  seven  courts,  and  in  the  last  is  stored  a  great 
treasure  .  .  . 

Antonio.    Then  in  the  innermost  chamber  of  my  soul 


[ACT  II]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  6i 

was  stored  the  love  I  have  for  you,  and  if  you  had  not 
come  and  opened  the  door  yourself,  and  helped  me  to  find  it, 
I  should  have  passed  all  my  life  in  ignorance,  without 
knowing  anything  was  there. 

Teresa.     Don't  repeat  such  heresies! 

Antonio.  Is  it  a  heresy — the  love  I  bear  for  you? 
No,  it  is  a  religion — the  only  one  for  me!  My  girl! 
Seven  courts,  you  say?  Then  with  a  great  effort  I  had 
passed  into  the  first  and  I  was  running  here  and  there 
aimlessly,  and  you  don't  know  what  horrible  things  I  found 
— everywhere  I  stumbled  on.  They  were  my  own  traits. 
I  was  cold,  selfish,  proud,  without  trust  or  faith,  without 
other  ambitions  than  material  desires — to  pass  through  life 
easily  and  well,  to  be  the  first  in  my  own  petty  world,  in- 
capable of  sacrifice,  of  abnegation,  of  compassion,  of  dis- 
interested love. 

Teresa.     No!     No!     You  were  no  such  thing. 

Antonio.  But  I  lived  as  if  I  were!  What  difference 
did  it  make?  But  then  one  day  I  heard  your  voice,  and 
summoned  by  you,  I  again  searched  through  the  castle,  and 
in  the  other  courts  I  began  to  find — ah!  under  how 
many  cobwebs,  all  covered-up  with  dust — humility  and  de- 
votion, warmth  of  heart,  pity  and  faith  in  so  many  holy 
things.  And  then  I  found  my  honor,  self-respect  and 
sympathy  with  my  fellow  man,  in  which  we  live,  Teresa, 
for  without  it  nothing  else  is  life,  and  I  began  to  be  a  man 
when  I  first  loved  you.  For  in  these  things  you  are  the 
master,  and  I  have  learned  them  all  from  you! 

Teresa,     Hush !     They  are  coming. 

[Teresa  falls  back  from  the  grille,  after  first  drawing 
the  curtains  again.  The  Nuns  in  single  file  enter  silently, 
the  youngest  first,  followed  at  last  by  the  Mistress  of 
Novices,  the  Vicaress  and  the  Prioress.  The  Prioress 
seats  herself  in  the  arm-chair  at  the  left  of  the  grille;  the 
Vicaress  and  the  Mistress  of  Novices  in  two  other 
chairs  at  the  right.  The  remaining  Nuns  stand  or  are 
seated  round  about.     Teresa  supports  herself  with  her  hand 


62  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  II} 

on  the  back  of  the  Prioress's  chair.  Sister  Joanna  of 
THE  Cross  approaches  her  and  takes  her  by  the  other  hand. 
There  is  absolute  silence  as  the  Nuns  enter  and  find  their 
places.  They  look  at  each  other  unth  expectant  attention^ 
and  some  nod  and  smile  among  themselves.  When  they 
are  seated,  there  follows  an  interval  of  further  silence.^ 

Prioress.  Ave  Maria  Purissima!  [Antonio^  some- 
what embarrassed,  and  endeavoring  vainly  to  penetrate  the 
darkness  behind  the  grille,  does  not  answer.  The  Prioress, 
after  waiting  a  moment,  turns  her  head  and  smiles  indul- 
gently at  the  community.^     Good  afternoon,  young  man. 

Antonio.  Good  afternoon,  Madam — or  Madams — for 
behind  the  mystery  of  this  screen,  it  is  impossible  for  me 
to  see  whether  I  am  speaking  with  one  or  with  many. 
[The  Nuns  smile  quietly  and  discreetly. "^ 

Prioress.  [In  a  low  voice.'\  Run  back  the  curtain. 
Sister  Inez.  [The  Sister  runs  back  the  curtain.^  You 
aie  speaking  with  the  entire  community,  which  takes  great 
pleasure  in  knowing  you. 

Antonio.  Ladies,  the  pleasure  and  the  honor  are  mine, 
and  they  are  much  greater  than  you  will  be  ready  to 
imagine. 

Sister  Inez.  Bless  us!  But  isn't  he  a  polite  and 
polished  talker? 

Sister  Tornera.  Keep  still!  I  want  to  hear  what 
he  has  to  say. 

Antonio.  For  a  long  time  I  have  desired  greatly  to 
visit  you.  Teresa  knows  it,  and  she  must  have  told  it 
to  you. 

Prioress.  That  is  true.  She  has  indeed.  And  we 
have  greatly  appreciated  your  desire. 

Antonio.  But  the  first  time  I  was  in  this  place  it  was 
Advent  and  the  second  it  was  Lent;  and  both  times  Teresa 
informed  me  that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  see  you. 

ViCARESS.  Clearly.  In  seasons  of  penitence  we  receive 
no  visitors. 

Antonio.    But  now  it  is  May  and  past  Easter  time. 


IJCT  II]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  63 

Mistress  of  Novices.  How  well  acquainted  he  is  with 
the  calendar!     Surely  you  must  be  very  devout,  sir. 

Antonio.  I  am,  Madam — very;  but  chiefly  in  the  wor- 
ship of  certain  saints  who  as  yet  are  not  on  the  altars. 

Sister  Inez.  What  a  nice  compliment!  Saints,  did 
he  say?     [^Laughing.]     He  is  a  polished  talker. 

Antonio.  Ladies,  after  a  hundred  years  they  will  be 
lighting  candles  to  you,  and  invoking  you  in  prayers,  and 
in  gratitude  they  will  be  bringing  you  thank  offerings  of 
crutches  and  wooden  legs. 

Sister  Tornera.  [Laughing.]  Does  he  think  we  are 
going  to  be  the  patrons  of  rheumatism? 

Mistress  of  Novices.  After  a  hundred  years?  You 
are  giving  us  a  century  of  Purgatory. 

Antonio.  No,  Madam,  by  all  that  is  holy!  I  am 
giving  you  a  century  of  life,  and  entrance  thereafter  directly 
into  the  choir  of  seraphim. 

Prioress.  I  fear  you  speak  frivolously,  Seiior  Don 
Antonio. 

Antonio.  Madam,  I  was  never  more  earnest  in  my  life. 
Whenever  I  think  of  death,  you  have  no  idea  of  the  peace 
which  enters  my  soul.  I  remember  how  many  saintly  white 
hands  will  be  stretched  down  to  me  to  help  me  into  Paradise 
— for  I  suppose  that  you  will  be  able  to  exercise  a  little  in- 
fluence on  behalf  of  one  of  the  family. 

Sister  Sagrario.     [Laughing.]     One  of  the  family? 

ViCAREsa.     Certainly.     We  are  all  Grod's  children. 

Antonio.  But  I  shall  be  so  in  a  double  sense;  first, 
in  my  own  birthright,  and  then  as  your  son-in-law,  who  are 
his  brides. 

ViCARESS.     Ah !     It  is  not  meet  to  jest  about  holy  things. 

Antonio.  Madam,  you  are  right.  And  you  will  par- 
don me  all  the  inconsequences  which  I  have  said,  for  I 
swear  to  you  that  they  have  been  nothing  but  nervousness 
and  fear. 

Mistress  of  Novices.    You  are  not  afraid  of  us? 

Antonio.     I  am.  Madam,  very — because  of  the  respect 


64  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  //] 

and  admiration  in  which  I  hold  you  all.  I  came  here  more 
disturbed  than  I  ever  have  been  before  in  my  whole  life. 
I  do  not  know  whether  I  should  thank  you,  or  whether 
I  should  beg  your  pardon. 

Prioress.     Beg  our  pardon? 

Antonio.  Yes,  because  I  fear  that  I  am  not  worthy 
of  the  treasure  which  you  are  entrusting  to  me. 

Prioress.  We  know  already  through  the  doctor  that 
you  are  an  honorable  young  man. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  And  the  love  which  our  daughter 
bears  you  is  our  guarantee.  Surely  the  Lord  would  not 
permit  His  child,  brought  up  in  His  fear,  to  throw  herself 
away  upon  an  evil  man. 

Antonio.  I  am  not  evil,  no ;  but  I  am  a  man,  and  you, 
ladies,  with  all  the  great  piety  of  your  souls,  have  been 
nurturing  a  flower  for  the  skies.  When  I  first  knew  her, 
my  heart  whispered  to  me  that  I  had  met  a  saint.  She 
was  a  miracle.  When  I  first  dared  to  speak  to  her,  there 
came  over  me  a  fear  and  a  trembling  that  were  out  of  the 
course  of  nature;  and  when  I  told  her  that  I  loved  her,  my 
heart  stopped,  and  bade  me  to  fall  on  my  knees,  and  now 
that  I  have  come  here  to  beg  my  happiness  of  you,  I  don't 
know  what  I  can  promise  you  in  token  of  my  gratitude,  nor 
how  I  can  give  you  thanks  enough  for  the  great  honor  which 
you  do  me. 

ViCARESS.  It  may  be  you  are  speaking  more  truly  than 
you  think,  Senor  Don  Antonio. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  Why,  Mother ! 
ViCARESS.  No,  let  me  speak.  For  he  has  said  well. 
The  girl  is  not  one  of  those  worldly  creatures  who  take 
to  their  husbands  a  great  store  of  physical  beauty.  That 
is  certain.  You  cannot  call  her  ugly,  but  it  is  the  most  that 
can  be  said.  Nor  does  she  bring  with  her  any  dower. 
She  is  poorer  than  the  poor.  But  she  carries  in  her  heart 
a  treasure,  the  only  one  which  we  have  been  able  to  give 
her,  which  is  more  priceless  than  silver  or  gold,  and  that  is 
the  fear  of  God.     For  this,  sir,  you  must  be  answerable  to 


[ACT  //]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  65 

us,  and  we  ask  yau  your  word  now,  that  you  will  always 
respect  it  in  her  and  in  her  children,  if  you  should  have  any, 
if  it  should  be  God's  holy  will. 

Antonio.  Teresa  shall  always  be  the  absolute  mistress 
of  her  conscience  and  of  my  house,  and  my  children  shall 
ever  be  that  which  she  desires.     I  pledge  my  word. 

Prioress.  You  will  never  have  reason  to  regret  it,  for 
she  is  a  good  and  prudent  girl. 

ViCARESS.  And  not  hypocritical,  for,  although,  as  you 
have  said,  we  have  nurtured  her  for  the  skies,  we  have  never 
permitted  ourselves  to  believe  that  she  was  to  reach  them 
through  the  cloister. 

Sister  Maria  Jesus.  Do  you  mean  to  take  her  very 
far  away? 

Antonio.  Yes,  Madam.  That  is  to  say,  there  is  no 
longer  in  the  world  either  far  or  near.  We  sail  next  week. 
I  am  going  to  America  as  the  resident  director  of  a  firm  of 
architects. 

Prioress.     Yes,  we  know  already. 

Antonio.  That  is  the  reason  for  this  haste.  I  do  not 
wish  to  go  alone. 

Sister  Tornera.  Aren't  you  afraid  the  child  will  be 
seasick  ?  They  say  you  do  get  a  terrible  shaking-up  upon  the 
sea. 

Sister  MARfA  Jesus,  You  must  promise  us  to  take  good 
care  of  her. 

Sister  Inez.  If  she  gets  overheated  never  let  her  drink 
cold  water.     She  is  very  pig-headed  about  that. 

Sister  Marcella.  But  you  mustn't  forget  that  she  is 
accustomed  to  cold  baths. 

Sister  Inez.  If  she  takes  cold  or  gets  a  cough,  make 
her  drink  a  glass  of  hot  milk  with  a  teaspoonful  of  hot 
rum  in  it,  with  plenty  of  sugar,  for  that's  the  only  thing  that 
will  make  her  sweat. 

Teresa.  I  think  perhaps  I  had  better  attend  to  these 
matters  myself.  Sister. 

Sister  Inez.     Yes,  you'd  be  a  pretty  one  to  attend  to 


66  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  11] 

them !  Don't  you  mind  what  she  says,  Senor  Don  Antonio, 
for  she  is  spoiled  utterly.  If  you  don't  give  her  medicines 
and  force  the  spoon  down  her  throat,  she  might  be  dying 
for  all  you'd  know,  but  she'd  never  ask  for  them  herself. 

PkiORESS.  We  had  better  not  confuse  him  with  too 
many  recommendations.  Surely  he  knows  the  more  im- 
portant precautions  already. 

Antonio.  [Smilinff.l  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  you 
wrote  them  out  for  me  on  a  piece  of  paper. 

Sister  Tornera.  A  good  idea!  [Laughing.]  If  we 
began  where  does  he  think  we'd  leave  oif? 

Sister  Sagrario.  How  many  days  will  you  be  on  the 
ship? 

Antonio.    Two  weeks. 

Sister  Marcella.  Mercy!  What  an  age!  Suppose 
there  should  be  a  storm? 

Mistress  of  Novices.  It  will  be  at  least  two  weeks 
more  before  we  can  get  letters  back. 

Antonio.  We  will  telegraph  when  we  arrive  and  we 
will  send  you  a  message  from  the  middle  of  the  ocean,  so 
that  you  will  hear  from  us  the  same  day. 

Sister  Inez.  Mother  of  God!  Can  they  send  mes- 
sages now  from  the  middle  of  the  ocean?  How  do  the 
words  come? 

Teresa.     Flying  through  the  air,  like  birds. 

Sister  Inez.  What  will  men  invent  next?  When  yout 
handmaid  was  in  the  world,  they  came  by  a  wire,  and  yet 
it  seemed  the  work  of  the  devil. 

Antonio.  I  should  not  advise  you,  Madam,  to  believe 
that  the  devil  is  ever  very  far  away  from  these  inventions. 

Sister  Inez.  Whether  he  is  or  not,  when  the  telegram 
comes  it  will  be  safest  to  sprinkle  it  with  holy  water. 

Prioress.  Ah,  Sister  Inez,  you  are  so  simple!  Ddh't 
you  see  that  the  young  man  is  only  joking? 

ViCARESS.  It  is  five  o'clock — the  hour  we  were  to  ex- 
pect your  father. 

Antonio.     I  do  not  wish  to  molest  you  further. 


[ACT  //]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  67 

Prioress.  You  do  not  molest  us,  but  we  must  close 
the  parlor  at  five. 

Antonio.  You  will  pardon  me  if  I  commit  a  terrible 
breach  of  etiquette,  but  I  should  like  to  ask  you  one  favor 
before  I  go. 

Prioress.     If  it  is  in  our  power  to  grant  .  .  . 

Antonio.  Although,  as  it  seems,  you  have  run  back  a 
curtain,  yet  the  mystery  of  this  screen  still  remains  a  mystery 
to  me,  a  poor  sinner,  inscrutable  as  before;  and  I  should 
be  sorry  to  go  away  without  having  seen  you  face  to  face. 
Is  it  too  much  to  ask? 

Prioress.  For  us  this  is  a  day  of  giving.  Draw  back 
the  curtains,  Teresa.  [Teresa  draws  back  the  curtain  from 
one  window,  a  NuN  that  from  the  other,  lighting  up  the 
room.^ 

Antonio.     [Bowing.'\     Ladies!  .  .  . 

ViCARESS.    Well?     How  does  the  vision  appear  to  you? 

Antonio.     I  shall  never  forget  iv  as  long  as  I  live. 

Prioress.  Then  may  God  go  with  you,  and  may  you 
live  a  thousand  years.  [Taking  Teresa  by  the  hand.} 
Here  is  her  hand.  See,  we  give  her  to  you  with  a  great 
love,  and  may  you  make  her  happy. 

Antonio.     I  answer  for  her  happiness  with  my  life. 

Prioress.    And  may  God  go  with  you. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  Teresa  will  give  you  from  us 
two  scapularies,  the  remembrances  of  a  nun.  They  are 
not  worth  anything,  but  they  have  lain  beside  the  reliquary 
of  our  father,  the  blessed  Saint  Dominic.  Keep  them  in 
memory  of  this  day. 

Antonio.  I  shall  treasure  them,  ladies,  from  this  hour. 
And  I  pray  you,  remember  me  always  in  your  prayers. 

ViCARESS.  And  upon  your  part  do  not  forget  to  pray 
with  them  from  time  to  time,  for  although  it  lies  within 
the  province  of  everyone  to  help  our  souls  along  the  way 
to  heaven,  yet  we  must  take  the  first  steps  ourselves.  And 
may  God  go  with  you. 

All.    God  go  with  you. 


68  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  II] 

Antonio.  Ladies!  .  .  .  [He  retires  and  disappears. 
A  Nun  draws  the  curtain  over  the  grille.  Then  a  mo- 
ment's silence.     Some  of  the  Nuns  sigh  and  say:] 

Nuns.  Ah,  Lord!  Good  Lord!  May  it  be  God's 
holy  will!      [The  bell  by  the  door  rings  twice.] 

ViCARESS.     I  thought  so — your  father. 

[Teresa  stands  in  the  midst  of  the  group  of  NuNS, 
bewildered,  looking  from  one  to  the  other,  greatly 
moved.     Sister  Tornera  goes  to  open  the  door.] 

Prioress.     Ask  him  to  come  in. 

[The  Doctor  enters  on  the  arm  of  Sister  Tornera. 
He  is  now  very  old,  but  neither  decrepit  nor  cast  down.] 

Doctor.  Good  afternoon,  ladies;  good  afternoon, 
daughter. 

Teresa.     [Kissing  his  hand.]     Good  afternoon,  father. 

Doctor.  The  whole  assembly — the  parting,  eh?  Well, 
did  you  see  the  young  man?  [The  Nuns  do  not  answer.] 
A  fine  fellow,  isn't  he?  He  is  waiting  outside.  We  have 
an  hour  in  the  coach  before  we  arrive  at  the  station,  so 
you  had  better  get  ready  now,  daughter.  [Teresa  goes 
out  with  Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.]  Ah!  The 
trunk?  Good!  Carry  i-t  to  the  doo'r.  The  boys  outside 
will  take  care  of  it.  [Two  Nuns  ////  the  trunk  and  carry 
it  out  by  the  door  on  the  right.]  There,  that  is  done. 
[He  seats  himself  in  the  Prioress's  chair.]  Well,  how  are 
we  to-day? 

Prioress.     You  see,  Doctor. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  Who  would  ever  have  believed 
it  eighteen  years  ago? 

Doctor.  Eighteen  years?  We  are  growing  old.  Mother. 
We  are  growing  old. 

Prioress.     That  is  not  the  worst  of  it. 

Sister  Inez,     How  old  are  you  now,  Doctor? 

Doctor.     Seventy-eight,  Sister. 

Sister  Inez.     No  one  would  ever  think  it. 

Doctor.  [Attempting  a  witticism  so  as  to  cheer  up  the 
Nuns.]     That  is  because  I  am  preserved  in  sanctity,  like 


[ACT  77]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  69 

a  fly  in  thick  syrup.  [But  none  of  the  NuNS  laugh.^ 
A  little  mournful  to-day,  eh? 

Sister  Marcella.     What  else  did  you  expect? 

Sister  Sagrario.  She  is  not  even  going  to  be  married 
in  our  chapel. 

DbCTOR.  No,  his  mother  is  old  and  sick,  and  naturally 
she  wants  him  to  be  with  her,  so  they  must  be  married 
in  her  house. 

Prioress.     Naturally.     Poor  woman!     [A   pause.l 

Mistress  of  NaviCES.     She  is  going  so  far  away! 

Doctor.  But  she  will  come  back,  Mother.  She  will 
come  back. 

Prioress.     She  knows  nothing  of  the  world. 

Doctor.  There  is  no  cause  to  be  alarmed.  He  is  an 
honorable  man. 

ViCARESS.  Yes,  he  seems  to  be  one.  [Teresa  and 
Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross  re-enter.  It  is  plain  that  they 
have  both  been  crying.  Teresa^  wearing  a  mantilla,  and 
with  her  coat  on,  carries  a  shawl  over  her  arm  for  use  as  a 
wrap  on  the  voyage.  She  stops  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
and  stands  still,  not  daring  to  say  good-bye.^ 

Doctor.     Well?     Are  w"e  ready  now? 

Teresa.     Yes  .  .  .  Now  .  .  . 

Doctor.  Then  say  good-bye.  It  is  late.  We  must  be 
going,  daughter. 

Prioress.     Yes,  you  must  not  delay. 

Teresa.  [Throwing  herself  on  her  knees  before  the 
Prioress  and  kissing  her  scapular.]     Mother! 

PrioresSi.     Rise,  my  daughter,  rise. 

Teresa.     Bless  me,  Mother!     Bless  me! 

Prioress.  May  God  bless  you ;  so.  Rise.  [As  Teresa 
rises,  the  NuN  embraces  her.] 

Teresa.  Mother!  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you 
...  I  don't  know  how  to  leave  you  .  .  .  but  you  must 
forgive  me  all  the  wrong  I  have  ever  done  in  all  these 
years.  I  have  been  foolish,  wilful.  I  have  made  so  much 
trouble  for  you  all.     You  must  forgive  me.     I  would  like 


70  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  II] 

to  do  something  great,  something  splendid  for  you  all. 
But — but  may  God  reward  you!  May  Grod  reward  you! 
God  reward  you!     [She  bursts  into  tears.] 

Prioress.  My  daughter,  come!  You  must  not  cry. 
You  must  not  allow  yourself  to  be  afflicted  so. 

Teresa.  I  am  not  afflicted,  Mother;  but  .  .  .  it's  .  .  . 
Mother,  I  can  never  forget  you!  You  must  pray  for  me, 
pray  for  me!     And  you  must  never  forget  me! 

Prioress.  Ah,  no,  my  child!  Never!  We  will  pray 
God  to  help  you,  and  to  be  with  you,  and  you  must  pray 
to  Him  for  guidance  and  for  counsel  always,  whenever 
you  are  troubled  or  perplexed  in  anything.  For  the  lib- 
erty which  they  enjoy  in  the  world  is  like  a  swOrd  in  the 
hands  of  a  child,  and  life  at  best  is  hard,  and  bitter  often- 
times. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  Be  thankful  that  your  heart  is 
well  steeled  to  resist  all  the  temptations  that  may  come. 
Is  it  not,  my  daughter? 

Teresa.     It  is,  Mother. 

Prioress.  Will  you  promise  always  to  be  reverent  and 
good? 

Teresa.    Yes!    Yes,  Mother! 

Vicaress.  Remember  that  your  obligation  is  greater 
than  that  of  others,  because  you  have  come  forth  from 
God's  own  house. 

Teresa.    Yes!    Yes,  Mother! 

PrioresSu  Remember  all  the  blessings  He  has  showered 
upon  you  from  the  cradle;  remember  that  your  whole  life 
has  been  as  a  miracle,  that  you  have  lived  here  as  few  have 
ever  lived,  that  you  have  been  brought  up  as  few  have  ever 
bgpn  brought  up,  like  the  Holy  Virgin  herself,  in  the  very 
temple  of  the  Lord. 

Mistress  of  Novices.  As  He  was  to  the  Evangelist, 
so  God  has  been  to  you  a  father  and  a  mother,  more  than 
to  any  other  living  thing. 

Prioress.  Remember  that  you  are  the  rose  of  His 
garden  and  the  grain  of  incense  upon  His  altar. 


[ACT  11]  THE  CRADLE  SONG  71 

Teresa.  Yes!  Mother,  yes!  I  will!  ...  I  will  re- 
member all  ...  all  ...  all  ..  . 

Mistress  of  Novices.  And  do  not  forget  each  day  to 
make  an  examination  of  your  soul. 

Teresa.     No,  Mother. 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.    And  write  often. 

Teresa.    Yes,  Mother. 

Doctor.     It  is  time  to  go,  Teresa. 

Teresa.  [Throwing  herself  suddenly  into  his  arms.] 
Oh,  father!  Promise  me  never  to  leave  them!  Never 
abandon  them! 

Doctor.  Child  of  my  heart!  Ah,  may  they  never 
abandon  me! — for  this  is  my  house.  For  more  than  forty 
years  I  have  been  coming  here  day  by  day,  hour  by  hour, 
and  now  there  is  nobody  within  these  walls  who  is  older 
than  I.  I  have  no  children.  I  have  had  my  loves — yes, 
a  moment's  flame — but  it  was  so  long  ago!  I  have  for- 
gotten them.  And  these  Sisters,  who  have  been  mothers 
to  you,  have  been  daughters  to  me;  and  now,  when  I 
come,  they  no  longer  even  cover  their  faces  before  me.  Why 
should  they?  It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had  seen  them  born. 
And  in  this  house  [Greatly  moved.]  I  should  like  to  die,  so 
that  they  might  close  my  eyes,  and  say  a  prayer  for  me 
when  life  itself  has  closed! 

Mistress  of  Novices.  Who  is  thinking  of  dying. 
Doctor? 

Prioress.     It  is  time  to  go. 

Teresa.  [^Looking  from  one  to  the  other.]  Aren't 
you  going  to  embrace  me?  [The  Nuns^  after  hesi- 
tating and  glancing  a  moment  doubtfully  at  the  Mother 
Prioress^  embrace  Teresa  in  turn,  in  perfect  silence. 
Only  Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross,  taking  her  into  her 
arms  J  says:] 

Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross.    My  child! 

Prioress.  May  you  find  what  you  seek  in  the  world, 
daughter,  for  so  we  hope  and  so  we  pray  to  God.  But 
if  it  should  not  be  so,  remember,  this  is  your  Convent. 


72  THE  CRADLE  SONG  [ACT  II] 

Teresa.  Thanks  .  .  .  thanks  .  .  .  [Sobbinff.'] 
Doctor.  Come,  daughter,  come  .  .  .  \_The  Doctor  and 
Teresa  ffo  to  the  door,  but  Teresa  turns  when  she  reaches 
the  threshold  and  embraces  Sister  Joanna  of  the  Cross, 
passionately.  Then  she  disappears.  Sister  Joanna  op 
the  Cross  rests  her  head  against  the  grille,  her  back  to 
the  others,  and  weeps  silently.  A  pause.  The  bells  of 
the  coach  are  heard  outside  as  it  drives  away.] 

Mistress   of   Novices.    They  are  going  now.     {The 
chapel  bell  rings  summoning  the  Nuns  to  choir.] 
Prioress.     The  summons  to  the  choir. 
Mistress    of    Novices.     Come,    Sisters!     Let    us    go 
there. 

[All  make  ready  to  go  out  sadly.     The  Vicaress^ 
sensing  the  situation,  to  h^r  mind  demoralizing,  feils 
it  to  be  hef  duty  to  provide  a  remedy.     She,  too,  is  greatly 
moved,  but   making  a  supreme  effort  to   control  her- 
self, says  in  a  voice  which  she  in  vain  endeavors  to 
make  appear  calm,  but  which  is  choked  in  utterance 
by  tears'.] 
ViCARESS.     One  moment.     I  have  observed  of  late  .  .  . 
that  some  ...  in  the  prayer  .  .  .  have  not  been  marking 
sufficiently  the  pauses  in  the  middle  of  the  lines,  while  on 
the  other  hand,  they  drag  out  the  last  words  interminably. 
Be   careful   of    this,    for  your   Reverences   know    that   the 
beauty  of  the  office  lies  in  rightly  marking  the  pauses,  and 
in  avoiding  undue  emphasis  on  the  end  of  the  phrase.     Let 
us  go  there,     [The  Nuns  file  out  slowly.     Sister  Joanna 
of  the  Cross^  unnoticed,  remains  alone.     With  a  cry,  she 
falls  upon  her  knees  beside  an  empty  chair.] 

Curtain 


THE  LOVER 

COMEDY  IN  ONE  ACT 

TEATRO  DE  LA  COMEDIA,  MADRID 
1913 

ARTS  LEAGUE  OF  SERVICE,  MANCHESTER 
1924 

FORTUNE  THEATRE,  LONDON 
1926 


CHARACTERS 

The  Queen. 

The  Lover. 

The  Lady  in  WAiTiNa 


THE  LOVER 

Salon  in  a  Royal  Palace.  Although  of  extreme  richness, 
the  furnishings  preserve  an  atmosphere  of  simplicity. 

The  stage  is  empty  when  the  curtain  rises.  Loud  shouts 
and  cries  are  heard  outside,  as  if  an  accident  were  taking 
place.  Then  various  noises  follow,  clamor  and  confusion. 
After  a  moment  The  Queen  enters,  followed  by  The  Lady 
IN  Waiting. 

The  Queen  is  a  beautiful  woman,  gowned  in  faultless 
taste.  She  is  about  forty  years  of  age.  Her  hair  is  very 
dark,  except  for  a  solitary  white  lock  which  appears  al- 
most directly  above  the  middle  of  her  forehead;  but  this 
she  does  not  attempt  to  conceal  by  any  artifice.  She  enters 
in  full  regalia,  as  if  attired  for  some  court  ceremony.  From 
her  shoulders  hangs  the  royal  mantle. 

The  Lady  in  Waiting  is  about  sixty  years  of  age,  rather 
nobly  plain.     She  also  is  in  full  court  dress. 

The  Queen.  [As  she  leaves  The  Lady  in  Waiting, 
who  attempts  to  support  her.^  No,  let  me  be,  I  am  not 
hurt.  ...  It  is  nothing. 

Lady  in  Waiting.  Has  Your  Majesty  suffered  no  in- 
jury? 

The  Queen.     None,  I  assure  you. 

Lady  in  Waiting.  But  the  shock,  the  fright — be 
seated.  Your  Majesty.  [She  assists  her  to  remove  the 
Court  Mantle.]  Your  Majesty  must  rest.  At  least  drink 
a  glass  of  water. 

The  Queen.  [Seating  herself  in  an  arm-chair.]  You 
may  bring  the  water,  but  I  will  have  nothing  in  it.  Let  it 
be  pure  as  God  made  it. 

[The  Lady  in  Waiting  brings  the  water  from  a 
table  which  stands  near  by^ 
77 


78  THE  LOVER 

Lady  in  Waiting.  But,  Your  Majesty,  it  is  cold; 
Your  Majesty  is  overheated — 

The  Queen.  Give  me  the  glass.  [She  takes  it  from 
the  Lady  in  Waiting.]     You  are  trembling  all  over. 

Lady  in  Waiting.  Ah,  Your  Majesty,  you  have  no 
idea  how  frightened  I  vs^as,  how  frightened  we  all  were, 
when  the  horses  reared  in  the  traces!  Your  Majesty  can 
imagine  .  .  .  the  overturn,  the  coach  shattered  into  pieces. 
Your  Majesty  thrown  upon  the  ground! 

The  Queen.  [Smiling.li  Fortunately  there  was  some- 
body waiting  to  receive  me.  How  fortunate  that  that  man 
[Lauffhinff.J — my  knight-errant — was  so  near! 

Lady  in  Waiting.  [Displeased.]  Certainly,  Your 
Majesty. 

The  Queen.  [Lookiriff  at  her  for  a  moment,  then 
laughing.]  We  shall  have  to  award  him  the  Grand  Cross. 
Are  you  frowning? 

Lady  IN  Waiting.    Your  Majesty! 

The  Queen.  But  what  is  the  matter?  What  is  on 
your  mind? 

Lady  in  Waiting.  Your  Majesty,  that  man  was  un- 
mannerly and  impertinent.  Your  Majesty  will  not  be  dis- 
pleased, but  his  deportment  was  horribly  incorrect.  To 
catch  Your  Majesty  in  his  arms  without  permission! 

The  Queen.  Yes,  if  he  had  allowed  me  to  break  my 
neck,  his  conduct  would  have  been  more  correct.  In  that 
case  he  would  not  have  committed  a  breach  of  etiquette. 
No,  indeed!  It  is  not  every  day  that  a  woman,  even  if  she 
is  a  queen,  is  in  peril  of  her  life,  and  has  the  experience 
of  being  saved  from  death  in  a  gallant's  arms. 

Lady  in  Waiting.     Your  Majesty  amuses  herself. 

The  Queen.  Perhaps  I  do,  but  not  unkindly.  Poor 
fellow !    However,  you  may  malign  him  as  much  as  you  like. 

Lady  in  Waiting.  Your  Majesty,  I  do  not  malign 
him  when  I  suggest  that  it  is  incorrect  and  impertinent  for 
this    person    to    follow    Your    Majesty   wherever   you   go. 

The  Queen.     [Laughing.]     Like  my  shadow! 


THE  LOVER  79 

Lady  in  Waiting.  Like  a  rude,  ill-bred  fellow  who  is 
ignorant  of  decency  and  of  the  requirements  of  etiquette. 
Your  Majesty  never  leaves  the  Palace  but  that  he  is  stand- 
ing on  the  pavement  opposite.  You  cannot  go  to  church, 
or  to  the  theatre,  or  visit  the  parks,  or  attend  any  public 
ceremony  but  that  he  is  there  in  the  front  row,  yes,  or 
nearer  than  the  front  row,  as  he  was  to-day. 

The  Queen.     Fortunately  for  me. 

Lady  in  Waiting.  Your  Majesty,  loyal  vassals  were 
not  wanting  to  fly  to  Your  Majesty's  assistance. 

The  Queen.  [Gently.']  Yes,  so  I  saw  when  the 
horses  reared.  Half  a  dozen  dukes  began  to  run,  but 
what  with  etiquette  which  kept  them  at  a  safe  distance  and 
rheumatism  which  would  not  permit  them  to  run,  my  royal 
person  was  in  grave  danger.  \_Laughing.']  Indeed,  if  it 
had  not  been  for  him — 

Lady  in  Waiting.  Skulking  in  a  bramble  bush,  like 
a  lover  in  comic  opera! 

The  Queen.  Love  is  no  respecter  of  hiding  places. 
It  is  foolish  to  laugh  at  hidden  lovers,  even  in  comic  opera. 
Besides,  what  you  say  was  a  bramble  bush  appeared  to  me 
to  be  a  laurel,  and  men  take  as  naturally  to  laurels  now- 
adays as  they  did  in  the  time  of  Petrarch.  Some  of  the 
leaves  have  even  clung  to  my  robe.  [Picking  off  two  or 
three.]     Almost  enough  to  weave  a  crown  for  my  lover. 

Lady  in  Waiting.  Your  Majesty  surely  does  not  imply 
that  that  man  is  in  love? 

The  Queen.    Why  not?    Don't  you  think  so? 

Lady  in  Waiting.  He  is  utterly  deficient,  lacking. 
How  do  we  know  ?     Perhaps  he  may  be  .    .    . 

The  Queen.  An  anarchist?  But  how  stupid !  In  the 
twenty  years  he  has  followed  me,  he  never  yet  has  found 
an  opportunity   .    .    . 

Lady  in  Waiting.     [Horrified.']     Your  Majesty! 

The    Queen.     [Laughing.]     Of    showing    disrespect. 

Lady  in  Waiting.  Does  Your  Majesty  consider  that 
this  extraordinary  persecution  shows  no  disrespect? 


8o  THE  LOVER 

The  Queen.  But  what  has  become  of  him?  Where 
is  he? 

Lady  in  Waiting.     He  has  been  detained. 

The  Queen.     Where?     For  what  reason? 

Lady  in  Waiting.  For  having  introduced  himself 
without  permission  into  the  Palace  Gardens. 

The  Queen.  To  save  the  life  of  his  Queen!  The 
end  justifies  the  means. 

Lady  in  Waiting,  Your  Majesty,  he  could  scarcely 
have  been  advised  beforehand  that  Your  Majesty's  coach 
was  to  be  overturned,  and  at  that  particular  spot  in  the 
Palace  Gardens. 

The  Queen.     Then  you  do  not  believe  in  presentiments? 

Lady  in  Waiting.  Your  Majesty,  I  am  too  old  for 
such  things. 

The  Queen.  [With  a  note  of  melancholy  in  her  voice.^ 
So  am  I — for  such  things. 

Lady  in  Waiting.    Your  Majesty! 

The  Queen.  No,  we  both  know  how  old  I  am,  and 
so  does  the  world.  Decreeing  her  age  is  not  one  of  the 
prerogatives  of  a  queen.  [Taking  up  a  hand-glass,  she 
gazes  into   it  attentively.^     Horrible,   is  it  not? 

Lady  in  Waiting.  Your  Majesty  is  marvellously 
young. 

The  Queen.  Even  so,  marvels  do  not  last  long. 
Whenever  I  look  into  the  mirror  I  am  aghast  at  the  wrin- 
kles which  I  shall  find  there  very  soon.  I  know,  too,  where 
they  will  come.  [Indicating  her  eyes  and  mouthJ]  They 
show  already  when  I  laugh.  Ah,  when  she  is  twenty,  how 
carelessly  a  woman  laughs!  [Putting  down  the  mirror.^ 
When  I  laugh,  I  cover  my  face  with  my  fan.  WTien  I 
am  forty,  I  shall  have  all  the  Palace  mirrors  broken.  [She 
recites  simply.^ 

"When  forty  winters  shall  besiege  thy  brow" 

You  recall  Shakespeare's  sonnet? — 


THE  LOVER  %i 

"When  forty  winters  shall  besiege  thy  brow 
And  dig  deep  trenches  in  thy  beauty's  field, 
Thy  youth's  proud  livery,  so  gazed-on  now, 
Will  be  a  tatter'd  weed,  of  small  worth  held; 
Then  being  ask'd  where  all  thy  beauty  lies, 
Where  all  the  treasure  of  thy  lusty  days, 
To  say,  within  thy  own  deep-sunken  eyes. 
Were  an  ill-eating  shame  and  thriftless  praise. 
How  much  more  praise  deserved  thy  beauty's  use, 
If  thou  couldst  answer  'This  fair  child  of  mine 
Shall  sum  my  count  and  make  my  old  excuse,' 
Proving  his  beauty  by  succession  thine! 
This  were  to  be  new  made  when  thou  art  old, 
And  feel  thy  blood  warm  when  thou  feel'st  it  cold." 

[Sighing.'\     I  have  never  had  a  child! 

Lady  in  Waiting.  Your  Majesty!  [Affectionately 
but  disapprovingly.^  Your  Majesty  has  no  right  to  con- 
sider such  a  thing. 

The  Queen.  No,  of  course  not.  Ah!  [Smiling 
again.]     Do  you  suppose  he  could  be  a  poet? 

Lady  in  Waiting.    Why  a  poet? 

The  Queen.  Why  not?  In  any  case  we  shall  soon 
know. 

Lady  in  Waiting.    We  shall?     Hiow? 

The  Queen.     I  shall  ask,  and  learn  his  answer. 

Lady  in  Waiting.  Surely  Your  Majesty  does  not  in- 
tend— 

The  Queen.     To  receive  him?     Precisely. 

Lady  in  Waiting.     But  Your  Majesty,  he  is  nobody. 

The  Queen.  In  that  case  we  shall  become  acquainted 
more  easily.     I  shall  offer  him  my  thanks. 

Lady  in  Waiting.  Your  Majesty's  Government  will 
thank  him  officially. 

The  Queen.  But  he  has  saved  me  personally,  and  I 
shall  thank  him  personally.     I  will  receive  him  now. 

Lady  in  Waiting.    Your  Majesty! 


82  THE  LOVER 

The  Queen.  If  there  is  nothing  else  that  you  wish  to 
suggest  .    .    . 

Lady  in  Waiting.  Unless  Your  Majesty  has  changed 
her  mind? 

The  Queen.  No,  do  not  be  alarmed.  There  is  noth- 
ing to  fear. —    Ah!     And  I  will  receive  him  alone. 

Lady  in  Waiting.  As  Your  Majesty  commands. 
[She  goes  ow/.] 

[The  Queen  again  takes  the  mirror  and  gazes  into 
it  fixedly.     With   a  woman's   instinct,  she  rearranges 
her  hair;  then  laughs  at  herself  and  lays  the  mirror 
down  again.^ 
The  Queen. 
"When  forty  winters  shall  besiege  thy  brow"   .    .    . 

[The  Lady  in  Waiting  and  The  Lover  appear  in 
the  doorway.  He  is  forty  years  of  age,  neither  well 
nor  badly  dressed.  He  wears  a  black  sack  suit,  his 
beard  is  pointed,  his  hair  somewhat  long  and  slightly 
touched  with  gray.  He  comes  forward  greatly  agi- 
tated.   The  Lady  in  Waiting  retires.] 

The  Lover.    Your  Majesty! 

The  Queen.     No,  come  in. 

The  Lover.  [Advancing  a  step,  then  making  a  rever- 
ence.]    Your  Majesty! 

The  Queen.     Come  nearer. 

The  Lover.    Your  Majesty! 

The  Queen.     I  have  sent  for  you  to  offer  my  thanks. 

The  Lover.  I  do  not  deserve  them.  Your  Majesty 
will  command. 

The  Queen.  It  was  a  happy  chance  that  brought  you 
into  the  garden. 

The  Lover.    Yes,  Your  Majesty,  yes. 

The  Queen.    And  I  am  deeply  grateful  to  you. 

The  Lover.     No,  Your  Majesty,  no. 

The  Queen.     But  I  am.     Indeed  I  am! 

The  Lover.    Your  Majesty  will  decide. 


THE  LOVER  83 

The  Queen.  But  how  is  it  that  you  were  able  to  gain 
admission  to  the  Gardens? 

The  Lover.     Very  simply. 

The  Queen.     In  spite  of  my  guards? 

The  Lover.  Your  Majesty,  it  was  not  the  fault  of 
your  guards.  I  climbed  the  wall  at  the  rear  by  the  plane 
trees,  out  of  sight  of  the  guards. 

The  Queen.     In  broad  daylight? 

The  Lover.  No,  Your  Majesty,  last  night.  Your 
Majesty  must  not  be  alarmed — 

The  Queen.  But  the  wall  is  very  high  there.  You 
might  have  injured  yourself. 

The  Lover.     No,  Your  Majesty,  I  am  used  to  it. 

The  Queen.     Used  to  it? 

The  Lover.  Yes,  Your  Majesty,  on  Saturdays.  The 
factory  shuts  down  over  Sunday,  so  I  am  'not  obliged  to 
work.     I  have  plenty  of  time;   I  can  sleep  where  I   like. 

The  Queen.  Do  you  spend  the  night  in  the  open  air, 
in   the  garden? 

The  Lover.     It  is  very  pleasant  in  the  summer  time. 

The  Queen.     Do  you  mean  that  in  winter? — 

The  Lover.  Just  the  same;  yes,  Your  Majesty. 
[She  makes  a  gesture  of  astonishment. '\  Only  when  it 
freezes,  I  go  into  the  house  with  the  orang-outang.  Your 
Majesty  keeps  him  now  on  the  further  side  of  the  parterre. 
Don't  be  alarmed.  Your  Majesty;  we  are  great  friends. 
He  is  very  fond  of  tarts  and  roast  chestnuts,  so  you  see 
there  is  no  danger. 

The  Queen.  Great  Heaven!  Is  it  possible?  Are 
you  in  your  right  mind? 

The  Lover.     Yes,  Your  Majesty. 

The  Queen.  But,  my  good  man,  what  is  the  object  of 
exposing  yourself  in  mid-winter  in  this  fashion,  in  such 
singular  company? 

The  Lover.  Your  Majesty  .  .  .  really  ...  I  don't 
know  whether  or  not  I  ought  to  tell  you. 

The  Queen.     But  you  must ! 


84  THE  LOVER 

The  Lover.  Your  Majesty,  every  night  before  you  re- 
tire, and  when  you  get  up  in  the  morning,  Your  Majesty 
comes  out  upon  the  terrace  before  your  apartments.  In 
the  evening,  you  look  up  at  the  stars;  in  the  morning,  you 
feed  the  white  doves. 

The  Queen.  Yes,  I  do,  poor  things!  I  like  to  toss 
them  a  few  handfuls  of  corn. 

The  Lover.     [Interrupting.'\     Indian  corn. 

The  Queen.     How  do  you  know? 

The  Lover.  The  wind  usually  carries  some  grains  off 
the  terrace. 

The  Queen.     Do  you  pick  them  up? 

The  Lover.  Yes,  Your  Majesty,  when  I  can,  which 
is  not  often.  The  paths  are  swept  every  morning,  so  when 
night  comes,  they  are  no  longer  there. 

The  Queen.    What?     Do  you  keep  them? 

The  Lover.  Yes,  Your  Majesty.  I  have  a  collection 
of  souvenirs: — the  grains  of  corn;  a  feather  from  Your 
Majesty's  hat,  which  blew  out  one  day  while  you  were 
driving;  a  piece  of  fur  from  one  of  Your  Majesty's  boas, 
which  you  wore  at  the  last  Carnival — it  caught  in  the  rail- 
ing as  Your  Majesty  left  the  stand;  a  coin  Your  Majesty 
threw  from  your  coach  to  a  little  beggar  boy  in  the  street; 
a  tortoise-shell  hairpin  which  fell  into  the  garden  one  morning 
along  with  the  corn;  a  pair  of  gloves;  two  of  Your  Majesty's 
slippers — I  purchased  them  from  a  maid  of  one  of  the 
Ladies  of  the  Wardrobe — and  I  don't  know  what  else! 
You  see,  it  is  a  little  museum.  An  Englishman  offered  me 
a  thousand  pounds  sterling  for  it. 

The  Queen.     {Interested.~\     What  did  you   do? 

The  Lover.     Your  Majesty,  the  heart  is  not  for  sale. 

The  Queen.     You  must  be  rich. 

The  Lover.  No,  Your  Majesty,  I  was — that  is  to  say, 
rich  enough;  I  made  a  good  living.     But  now,  I  am  poor. 

The  Queen.     Have  you  lost  your  money? 

The  Lover.  Yes,  Your  Majesty.  But  we  will  not 
speak  of  that;  it  is  of  no  interest  to  Your  Majesty. 


THE  LOVER  85 

The  Queen.  But  it  is.  It  interests  me  very  much. 
May  I  ask  .  .  .   ? 

The  Lover.  How  I  lost  my  money?  Yes,  Your 
Majesty,  it  is  not  a  secret.  Even  if  it  were,  since  it  is 
Your  Majesty  ...  I  spent  it  upon  railway  tickets,  sea- 
voyages,  rooms  in  hotels.  Your  Majesty  is  such  a  great 
traveller! 

The  Queen.  Were  you  following  me?  [^He  nods  his 
head  in  assent.^     But  this  is  incredible. 

The  Lover.  No,  Your  Majesty,  no.  Travelling  is 
very  expensive.  As  long  as  Your  Majesty  remained  in 
Europe,  it  was  not  so  bad;  but  when  you  made  a  voyage 
to  India  and  another  to  the  Fair  at  Chicago,  and  imme- 
diately after,  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  Land — 

The  Queen.  Did  you  follow  me  even  as  far  as 
India? 

The  Lover.  Yes,  Your  Majesty.  Your  Majesty  will 
remember  that  the  voyage  was  undertaken  on  account  of 
your  health.  Your  Majesty  may  not  know  it,  but  the 
doctors  agreed  that  it  was  a  question  of  life  and  death.  It 
was  necessary  for  you  to  have  a  change  of  climate.  Thanks 
be  to  God,  Your  Majesty  recovered,  but  you  might  have 
died  on  the  journey.  Your  Majesty  will  understand  that 
under  the  circumstances  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  remain 
in  Europe. 

The  Queen.     Impossible! 

The  Lover.     [Ingenuously. '\     Absolutely. 

The  Queen.  But  I  cannot  consent  to  have  you  spend 
your  fortune  like  this. 

The  Lover.  Your  Majesty,  do  not  give  it  another 
thought.  It  was  not  exactly  a  gold  mine.  A  few  thou- 
sands, that  was  all — the  factory  which  I  had  the  honor  to 
mention  to  Your  Majesty:  "The  Unrivalled,  Makers  of 
Butter  and  Cheese" — purveyers  to  Your  Majesty,  yes,  in- 
deed! It  was  mine,  now  it  belongs  to  another.  That  is 
all. 

The  Queen.    But  you    .  .  .  ? 


86  THE  LOVER 

The  Lover.  I  am  assistant  bookkeeper  now;  I  check 
up  the  accounts. 

The  Queen.    That  must  pay  you  very  little. 

The  Lover.  Pshaw!  Nothing  to  speak  of.  It  is  a 
humble  position.  Believe  me,  Your  Majesty,  I  am  capable 
of  much  more  than  that.  If  not  proprietor,  I  might  still 
have  been  manager,  or  foreman  at  least,  only — 

The  Queen.     Only? 

The  Lover.  Only  .  .  .  Your  Majesty  will  not  be  dis- 
pleased, but  I  must  keep  my  time  free.  The  fact  is  .  .  . 
well,  I  have  taken  this  position  because  it  gives  me  a 
living  and — [Looking  down  at  his  clothes^ — and  enough  to 
appear  respectable,  because  it  requires  only  two  hours  a  day, 
from  half  past  nine  until  half  past  eleven  in  the  morning, 
precisely  the  hours  at  which  Your  Majesty  confers  with 
your  Ministers.     Your  'Majesty  will   understand   .    .    . 

The  Queen.  [Lauffhing.]  Certainly!  At  that  same 
hour  we  are  both  at  the  office. 

The  Lover.  No,  no,  Your  Majesty!  Your  Majesty 
misinterprets  my  meaning.  I  never  presumed  to  think  .  .  . 
the  fact  is  .  .  .  well,  between  those  hours  my  mind  is 
more  free;  I  am  able  to  work  without  distraction,  to  apply 
myself.  I  am  sure  that  Your  Majesty  is  not  upon  the 
streets. 

The  Queen.  How  long  do  you  expect  to  continue  this 
life? 

The  Lover.  As  long  as  I  am  able,  Your  Majesty,  and 
Your  Majesty  does  not  prevent.  Your  Majesty  is  not 
offended  at  what  I  have  said? 

The  Queen.  Offended?  No!  But  .  .  .  you  must 
be  very  unhappy. 

The  Lover.  No,  Your  Majesty,  very  happy.  Fery 
happy!  That  is,  not  as  happy  as  I  was,  because  now,  when 
Your  Majesty  leaves  Court,  I  am  not  always  able  to  travel. 
Rascally  coin!  But,  fortunately,  now  Your  Majesty  travels 
less.  It  will  not  do  to  ask  too  much  of  fortune.  Your 
Majesty,  after  what  happened  this  morning,  I  ...  I  am 


THE  LOVER  87 

repaid  for  everything  which  I  have  suffered  in  the  world. 
Your  Majesty  cannot  imagine  how  happy  it  makes  me  that 
.  .  .  that  is,  Your  Majesty  cannot  imagine  how  glad  I  am 
that  this  incident  .  .  .  although  I  would  have  given  my 
life  to  have  prevented  it  ...  I  mean  .  .  .  Your  Majesty 
understands  what  I  mean. 

The  Queen.  Yes,  yes,  I  do.  Do  not  distress  yourself. 
I,  too,  am  glad  that  it  was  you — 

The  Lover.     Your  Majesty! 

The  Queen.  Because  ...  I  have  noticed  your 
face  for  so  many  years,  I  have  seen  you  for  so  long  a 
time. 

The  Lover.    Your  Majesty  has  noticed  me? 

The  Queen.     Naturally. 

The  Lover.  Probably  Your  Majesty  thought  that  I 
was  a  photographer  for  one  of  the  illustrated  papers? 

The  Queen.     I  thought  that  you  were  a  poet. 

The  Lover.     No,  Your  Majesty!     No!     Never! 

The  Queen.     Have  you  never  written  verses? 

The  Lover.  [Disappointed.'^  Does  Your  Majesty 
like  verses? 

The  Queen.    Yes,  I  am  very  fond  of  them. 

The  Lover.  Goodness  gracious!  No,  Your  Majesty, 
no!  Never!  Never!  [Brightening. '\  But  I  know  by  heart 
almost  all  the  verses  which  have  been  published  about  Your 
Majesty — birthday  verses,  verses  celebrating  your  victories, 
your  works  of  charity,  and  so  on,  and  so  on.  There  are 
so  many  of  them!  Your  Majesty  of  course  knows  them, 
too? 

The  Queen.     Not  those  verses.     [Smiling.'\ 

The  Lover.     God  bless  us! 

The  Queen.  But  you  must  not  be  troubled.  One  may 
be  a  poet,  and  yet  not  write  verses. 

The  Lover.     Does  Your  Majesty  think  so? 

The  Queen.  Certainly,  we  may  write  poetry  or  we  may 
live  it.  [Deeply  affected.'\  And  devotion  and  self-denial, 
illusion  and  dreaming,  the  sacrifice  of  one's  life  to  an  ideal, 


88  THE  LOVER 

an  impossibility — these  things  are  also  true  poetry,  great 
poetry,  are  they  not? 

The  Lover.  [_Not  understanding.^  No  doubt.  Your 
Majesty,  no  doubt.  Of  course,  since  Your  Majesty  says 
so. 

The  Queen.    And  you  are  a  great  poet  of  life. 

The  Lover.     Your  Majesty  says  so. 

The  Queen.  And  I — because  you  are — in  memory  of 
this  day,  of  this  event,  which  also  is  an  extraordinary  one 
in  my  life — I  am  going  to  give  you  a  present  to  add  to  that 
collection  which  you  tell  me  of,  and  I  hardly  know — be- 
cause of  your  delicacy,  your  sacrifices,  really — will  you 
accept  this  remembrance  from  me?  [^She  offers  him  d 
jewel  which  she  wears  upon  her  breasti\ 

The  Lover.  No,  no.  Your  Majesty!  No!  By  no 
means!     Really.     Not  that  jewel!     No,  no! 

The  Queen.     But  why  not? 

The  Lover.  Because  a  jewel  is — a  jewel.  That  is, 
it  has  value — in  itself;  and — no,  Your  Majesty!     No,  no! 

The  Queen.     I  did  not  wish  to  give  offense. 

The  Lover.  No,  Your  Majesty,  no!  It  is  not  that. 
It  is  .  .  .  the  way  I  feel.  A  caprice!  If  your  Majesty 
would  deign  to  give  me  some  reminder,  something  personal, 
perhaps,  of  no  value. 

The  Queen.    As  you  wish. 

The  Lover.  If  you  would  let  me  have  that  mirror, 
Your  Majesty,  after  looking  into  it,  once.  [The  Queen 
looks  into  the  mirror  and  then  hands  it  to  the  Lover.^ 
There  .  .  .  Your  Majesty!  Thanks!  Your  Majesty  will 
permit  me  to  kiss  your  hand?  [He  kisses  iV.]  Thanks, 
thanks.  Your  Majesty!  Believe  me.  Your  Majesty — 
[Deeply  moved.]     This  is  the  happiest  day  of  my  life. 

The  Queen.  I,  too,  am  greatly  obliged  to  you,  and 
I  wish  to  ask  you  a  favor.  If  at  any  time  you  desire  any- 
thing, anything  which  it  is  within  my  power  to  grant,  you 
will  do  me  a  great  kindness  by  coming  to  me. 


THE  LOVER  89 

The  Lover.  \^Hesitatingj  wishing  to  ask  something. l^^ 
Your  Majesty! 

The  Queen.  Now  .  .  .  Tell  me  truly,  is  there  noth- 
ing that  you  wish? 

The  Lover.  Your  Majesty!  Since  Your  Majesty 
has  been  so  kind  ...  If  Your  Majesty  would  exert  your 
influence  with  the  Minister  of  the  Interior  to  have  him 
grant  me  a  pass  over  the  railways  of  the  Kingdom. 

The  Queen.  You  shall  have  it  this  very  day.  Is 
there  nothing  else?    What  is  your  name? 

The  Lover.  Matthew,  Your  Majesty.  Matthew 
Brown,  Your  Majesty's  humble  servant. 

The  Queen.  [Repeating  the  words  so  as  to  fix  them 
in  her  memory.^  Matthew  Brown.  You  shall  have  it 
this  afternoon.  Now,  you  may  retire.  [She  strikes  a  small 
silver  bell.]  And  many  thanks  yet  again.  [To  the  Lady 
in  Waiting^  who  enters.]  Let  this  gentleman  be  escorted 
to  his  home,  and  a  note  be  made  of  his  address.  [She  bows, 
dismissing  him.] 

The  Lover.  Your  Majesty!  .  .  .  [Bowing  very  low, 
he  is  about  to  disappear,  but  as  he  reaches  the  door,  he  turns 
and  says:]     It  need  not  be  first  class.     [Goes  out.] 

The  Queen.  [Disturbed,  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room,  without  knowing  whether  to  laugh  or  to  cry.] 
Matthew  Brown!  Matthew  Brown!  [To  The  Lady  in 
Waiting^  who  re-enters.]     Has  he  gone? 

Lady  in  Waiting.  Yes,  Your  Majesty.  But  Your 
Majesty  is  unwell!  Has  this  man  given  offense?  He  has 
been    impertinent — 

The  Queen.  No!  No!  On  the  contrary.  Poor 
fellow ! 

Lady  in  Waiting.    Was  he  a  poet? 

The  Queen.  A  poet?  No.  That  is — yes,  in  his  way. 
Imagine — but  how  can  you  imagine?  My  God!  This 
poor  man  has  given  his  life  for  me,  for  to  him  his  cheese 
factory  was  his  life.     Four  centuries  ago  he  would  have 


90  THE  LOVER 

fought  under  my  banners,  he  would  have  conquered  a  king- 
dom for  my  sake,  he  would  have  discovered  a  new  world 
and  have  laid  it  at  my  feet,  and  now — now,  to  see  me 
feed  corn  to  the  doves,  he  sleeps  in  a  cage  with  the  orang- 
outang! And  his  name  is  Matthew  Brown — Matthew 
Brown,  the  Lover!  The  poet  was  right: — ^We  have  been 
born  too  late  into  a  world  which  has  grown  too  oldl 


Curtain 


LOVE  MAGIC 

COMEDY  IN  ONE  ACT  AND  TWO  SCENES 

SALON  NACIONAL,  MADRID 
1908 

WALDORF-ASTORIA,  NEW  YORK 
1918 


CHARACTERS 

The  Prologue. 

Pierrot. 

Columbine,  Pierrot's  Wife. 

Pierrette,  Maid  and  Confidant  of  Columbine, 

PoLiCHiNELLE,  An  Old  Magician. 

Harlequin. 

A  Little  Girl. 


LOVE  MAGIC 

The  Prologue.  Rum-a-tum-tum !  Ladies  and  gentle- 
men! Although  I  am  a  marionette,  I  am  the  Prologue. 
And  invested  with  so  high  a  dignity,  permit  me  to  announce 
the  subject  of  the  comedy  which  is  about  to  be  presented, 
and  to  address  you  in  eulogy  of  the  personages  who  are 
to  appear  in  it.  Ladies  and  gentlemen!  Inevitably  it 
treats  of  love.  Love!  Love!  I  wish,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, I  were  a  poet  at  this  moment  so  that  I  might  present 
to  you  in  a  nosegay  of  the  sweetest  smelling  syllables  a  pane- 
gyric of  that  dear  misfortune,  that  delightful  pain,  that 
fatal  passion,  that  enchantment,  that  irresistible  effluence 
of  the  stars,  that  fierce  consuming  of  the  soul,  that  death- 
dealing  microbe — or  whatever  it  is  that  you  may  decide 
this  delicious  inquietude  to  be,  which,  through  all  the  cen- 
turies, men  and  women  have  agreed  to  call  love.  You 
would  listen  amazed,  if  I  were  such  a  poet,  to  the  crackling 
and  scintillation  of  my  metaphors;  you  would  admire  and 
marvel  at  the  unstable,  shifting  winds,  the  soft,  unfolding 
flowers,  the  'broad  expanse  of  heaven,  the  silver  fountains, 
the  caverns,  the  eagles,  the  sun  rays  and  the  moonbeams, 
and  all  the  twinkling  stars  which  I  should  make  dance 
before  you  upon  the  rope  of  my  imagination  to  embellish 
my  discourse.  You  would  twiddle  your  thumbs  with  de- 
light, ladies  and  gentlemen,  listening  to  my  discourse,  if 
I  were  a  poet;  but  I  have  already  told  you  that  I  am  not 
one;  I  am  only  a  marionette  and  the  Prologue.  I  see  you 
smile.  Smile,  then,  but  don't  disdain  me.  To  be  these 
two  things  at  one  and  the  same  time  one  must  amount  to 
something.  Marionette!  I  see  you  laugh.  Joy  sparkles 
in  all  your  eyes.  Do  you  suppose  that  it  is  a  small  thing 
to  have  a  name  the  very  mention  of  which  is  enough  to 

95 


96  LOVE  MAGIC 

make  people  laugh?  And  do  you  suppose  it  is  nothing, 
when  you  have  it,  to  be  able  to  live  up  to  it  throughout 
the  ages  and  to  uphold  such  a  reputation  v/xXh  a  dignity 
which,  after  all,  is  purely  ridiculous?  And  we  have  up- 
held it,  yes  we  have,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  splendidly,  like 
kings  and  princes.  Our  little  bodies  are  our  witnesses. 
To  win  applause  they  disjoint  themselves,  twist  and  turn 
and  bend  backward,  throw  off  their  arms  and  heads  into 
the  air,  or  lose  a  leg  in  a  high  prance  to  get  it  back  again 
in  a  pirouette.  See!  We  palpitate  from  head  to  foot, 
every  inch  of  us,  as  if  our  bodies  were  all  hearts.  And 
yet,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  beyond  a  doubt  we  have  no 
hearts.  What  should  we  need  of  them  when  we  vi- 
brate and  fly  from  one  thing  to  another  so  continuously 
without  them? 

A  Little  Girl.  But,  Mr.  Prologue,  how  can  mari- 
onettes love  if  they  have  no  hearts? 

The  Prologue.  I  did  not  say  that  they  could  love, 
my  dear  young  lady. 

Little  Girl.  Didn't  you  say,  Mr.  Prologue,  that  your 
comedy  was  about  love? 

Prologue.  That  is  exactly  it.  It  is  about  love,  but  it 
is  a  comedy. 

Little  Girl.    Oh! 

Prologue.  But  do  not  be  sad,  beautiful  black  eyes, 
for  our  comedy  will  be  incomparably  played.  All  the  love 
in  the  world  could  never  discover  lover's  sighs  anywhere 
which  would  be  like  those  of  Columbine. 

Little  Girl.  Good!  Good!  Are  you  going  to  tell 
us  about  Columbine? 

Prologue.  Why  not?  Know  then  that  she  is  white, 
but  not  pale,  because  in  each  of  her  cheeks  every  instant? 
a  rose  is  about  to  be  born.  She  has  painted  her  lips  with 
the  red  of  poppies,  and  one  day  when  she  sat  down  to 
dream,  looking  out  over  a  meadow,  two  violets  sprang  up 
and  jumped  into  her  eyes.  Since  then  nobody  has  been 
able  to  tell  whether  her  glances  were  fragrance  or  light, 


LOVE  MAGIC  97 

and  out  of  this  sweet  confusion,  as  out  of  all  beautiful 
confusions,  a  harmony  springs,  which  we  call  music.  And 
so  the  look  of  Columbine  is  a  song.  Merely  listening  to 
her  sing  and  hearing  her  laugh,  men  have  gone  mad.  So 
her  mind  is  like  a  wonderful  bird-cage,  filled  with  night- 
ingales, which,  like  all  captive  nightingales,  feed  upon  hearts 
— upon  her  heart.  That  is  why  Columbine  is  unfaithful 
to  Pierrot,  sometimes — to  feed  her  heart.  For  Pierrot, 
who  is  a  marionette  and  a  puppet  as  she  is,  refuses  her 
the  heart's  meat  on  which,  as  I  have  told  you,  the  night- 
ingales feed. 

Little  Girl.  Good!  Good!  Now  tell  us  about 
Pierrot. 

Prologue.  What  shall  I  tell  you  about  Pierrot?  His 
mind  is  like  a  sunbeam  which  has  fallen  into  a  globe  of 
crystal  and  clear  water,  and  all  the  colors  are  there  in  it, 
except  one,  which  is  constancy.  You  see  today  he 
imagines  he  is  a  philosopher,  but  out  of  his  phi- 
losophy roses  spring,  so  that  our  comedy  which  begins  with 
a  sigh,  ends  with  an  embrace,  or,  rather,  with  two  em- 
braces, because  Harlequin,  after  he  has  sung  his  song  so 
earnestly,  and  to  such  utter  disdain,  Consoles  himself  for 
love  by  loving,  and  for  the  kisses  which  he  cannot  get,  by 
those  the  girls  will  give.  For  this  is  the  proper  way  all 
love  songs  should  end.  •  Try  and  sing  them,  gentlemen, 
you  will  always  find  some  ear  that  is  willing  to  hear.  And 
you,  beautiful  ladiesr,  listen  to  the  song  of  love  while  it 
is  floating  in  the  air  and  catch  it  on  the  wing,  for  you  will 
find  that  it  is  tame  and  it  thrives  in  captivity.  Ask 
Pierrette  if  the  kisses  have  not  turned  to  honey  which  she 
has  taken  in  when  they  had  lost  their  way  and  had  no- 
where else  to  go.  Now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  can  only 
add  that  wisdom  is  about  to  appear  upon  the  stage  of  our 
farce,  but  the  triumph  of  folly  will  oblige  him  soon  to 
break  his  wand.  [The  curtain  rises.^  The  comedy  be- 
gins. This  is  the  garden — I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  the 
stage  represents  a  garden.     Open  your  ears,  for  the  foun- 


98  LOVE  MAGIC 

tain  begins  to  play,  open  your  eyes  for  the  roses  are  burst- 
ing into  bloom. 

[The  Prologue  retires.l 


SCENE  I 

In  Pierrot's  garden.  There  is  an  arbor  with 
rustic  benches  dt  the  right.  It  is  spring.  Trees  and 
bushes  droop  their  boughs,  laden  heavily  with  flowers, 
perfuming  all  the  air.  The  breezes  sing  vnth  the 
voices  of  birds,  and  the  sky  smiles  bright  with  sun- 
shine. 

Columbine^  seated  within  the  arbor,  whose  foliage 
conceals  her  almost  completely,  seems  wrapped  in  mel- 
ancholy thought.  Pierrot  walks  up  and  down  at  the 
rear,  musing,  and  gazing  contemplatively  from  the  sky 
to  the  ground  and  from  the  ground  to  the  sky,  ling- 
ering  lovingly  before  the  flowering  trees  and  talking 
to  the  flowers. 

Pierrot.  [Declaiming.']  O  Nature!  Mother  without 
beginning  and  without  ending,  beyond  the  touch  of  time! 
What  can  I  do  to  merit  all  thy  gifts?  Roses  of  fire! 
How  can  I  ever  hope  to  know  the  mystery  which  is  flaming 
at  your  hearts?  Lilies!  How  can  I  penetrate  the  secrets 
of  your  petals  of  white  snow?  Thanks,  thanks,  O  Beauty, 
thanks,  for  thou  hast  rent  thy  veil  before  mine  eyes! 
And  in  comtemplation  of  thy  treasures  I  must  end  my 
life. 

Columbine.     Ah!    Woe  is  me! 

Pierrot.  [Disappearing,  lost  in  the  depths  of  the 
garden.']  Thanks,  thanks,  a  thousand  thanks!  I  value  my 
vision  and  my  poet's  dreams  above  all  the  splendors  and 
above  all  the  loves  of  earth  and  heaven. 

Columbine.    Ah!    Woe  is  me! 


LOVE  MAGIC  99 

[Pierrette  enters,  accompanied  by  Polichinelle.] 

Pierrette.  Enter,  Signer  Polichinelle,  quickly;  for  now 
Signor  Pierrot  is  wrapped  in  his  meditations.  Hie  will  not 
discover  that  you  are  here.     Enter   .    .    . 

Polichinelle.  Did  you  say  that  your  mistress  had  sent 
for  me? 

Pierrette.  Oh,  how  eagerly,  Signor  Mage!  Could 
I  but  make  you  understand  how  wretched  the  poor  child 
has  beenl  Does  it  not  pierce  the  very  soul  to  look  at 
her?  She  spends  all  the  day  and  the  night-time  sighing, 
she  is  fading  away  so  fast.  That  divine  form  of  hers  is 
not  what  it  once  was,  alas! 

Polichinelle.     Alas ! 

Pierrette.  How  oblivious  men  are  to  such  things, 
Signor  Mage! 

Polichinelle.     Not  all  men. 

Pierrette.  My  lady  is  like  the  driven  snows  of  heaven 
to  her  spouse.  [Turning  toward  the  back  with  a  menac- 
ing gesture.]     Ah,    Signor  Pierrot!     Signor   Pierrot! 

Polichinelle.  Hush!  I  think  Columbine  has  dis- 
covered us. 

Columbine.  [Coming  out  of  the  arbor  and  advanc- 
ing in  tears  toward  Polichinelle.]  Ah,  Signor  Magician! 
How  impatiently  I  have  awaited  your  arrival! 

Polichinelle.     [Bowing.]     Signora  Columbine! 

Columbine.  Bring  chairs,  Pierrette. — Ah!  Woe  is 
me! 

Polichinelle.     Do  not  sigh,  lady. 

Columbine.     I  am  so  unhappy! 

Polichinelle.     I  congratulate  you — 

Columbine.     Upon   being  unhappy? 

Polichinelle.  No;  upon  finding  that  your  beauty  has 
not  faded  so  fast  as  I  had  been  led  to  suppose.  Of  course, 
1  had  heard  from  Pierrette — 

Pierrette.  [Returning  with  the  chairs.}  What  do 
you  know  about  such  things,  you  old  dotard  ?     Nonsense !     I 


loo  LOVE  MAGIC 

suppose  a  woman's  beauty  is  like  an  article  of  religion  in 
your  eyes — there  is  no  more  to  it  than  seeing  and  believ- 
ing. 

Columbine.     Leave  us,  Pierrette! 

Pierrette.  [Before  retiring,  she  looks  toward  the  rear, 
where  it  is  to  be  supposed  that  she  sees  PiERROT.]  There 
he  is  now.  Look  at  him! — bending  over  the  roses,  and, 
1  dare  say,  composing  verses  in  their  praise.  I  would  hand 
him  a  bunch  of  roses  if  he  had  the  honor  to  be  my  spouse! 
Ah,  Signor  Pierrot!  Unhappiest  of  men!  Don't  you  know 
that  you  are  not  the  only  poet  in  the  world;  that  there  are 
others  who  compose  as  beautiful  verses  as  you  do,  and  to 
better  purpose?  .  .  .  \_The  notes  of  a  cithern  are  heard 
in  the  distance.'\  Didn't  I  tell  you?  It  is  the  good  Har- 
lequin. 

Harlequin.     [Singing.'] 

White  roses  are  her  forehead, 
The  waving  grain  her  hair, 
The  stars  her  eyes; 
Alabaster  pure  her  shoulder, 
And  the  beauties  that  enfold  her 
The  starry  skies. 

Who  would  not  be  of  the  roses, 

Or  the  grain  that  is  her  hair? 

Her  starry  eyes? 

Or  her  neck  of  alabaster, 

Serf  and  slave  where  she  is  master— 

Her  deep  heart's  sighs? 

[The  words  are  heard  afar  off,  linked  with  a  haunt- 
ing melody.  Pierrette  listens,  entranced,  emphasiz- 
ing them  with  gestures  of  approval.  Columbine 
rises  indignantly,  the  first  stanza  scarcely  concluded, 
and  presently  addresses  PIERRETTE.] 
Columbine.     Pierrette! 


LOVE  MAGIC  loi 

Pierrette.    Lady ! 

Columbine.  Didn't  I  command  you  to  send  that  im- 
pertinent fellow  away?  His  music  is  displeasing  to  my 
ear. 

Pierrette.  In  compliance  with  your  command,  I  shut 
the  gate  in  his  face,  and  the  body  of  your  lover  remains 
outside  in  the  alley,  sore  distressed.  But  his  spirit — woe 
is  me! — is  an  immaterial  thing,  and  who  can  deprive  Signor 
Harlequin  of  the  consolation  of  sending  it  after  you  where- 
ever  you  may  be,  on  the  wings  of  his  songs? 

Columbine.  Go  and  tell  him  that  he  offends  me  with 
his  music. 

Pierrette.  I  would  not  be  too  severe  with  him,  if  I 
were  you.     What  harm  can  it  do  just  to  hear? 

Columbine.     [Indignantly.']     Pierrette ! 

Pierrette.  \_As  she  turns  to  go.]  All,  all  are  blindly 
in  love  with  the  impossible:  my  lady  with  her  husband. 
Harlequin  with  my  lady,  and  with  me,  nobody — which, 
alas,   is  only  too  possible! 

[Columbine  sinks  again  into  her  chair  and  sighs 
wearily.] 

PoLiCHiNELLE.  [Greatly  perplexed.]  But  will  you 
be  kind  enough  to  explain  to  me  what  the  matter  is? 
What  is  the  meaning  of  these  tears,  these  songs  of  Har- 
lequin's, this  inexplicable  discontent  upon  the  part  of  your 
maid?  Why  all  this  mystery?  I  am  distracted — I  shall 
go  out  of  my  head. 

Columbine.  Ah,  Signor  Polichinelle,  love  is  the  most 
mysterious  thing  in  the  world! 

Polichinelle.  I  should  be  sorry  to  have  you  think 
so.  Love  is  a  natural  function;  it  is  simple,  perfectly 
simple.  The  difficulty  is  that  we  complicate  it  with  spiri- 
tual distinctions.  Ah!  That  is  where  the  trouble  begins. 
Nature  is  never  willing  to  have  man  improve  upon  her 
processes. 

Columbine.    The  fact  is — 


loa  LOVE  MAGIC 

PoLiCHiNELLE.     That  IS  precisely  the  fact. 

Columbine.  The  fact  is  that  my  husband  does  not 
love  me. 

PoLiCHiNELLB.  What  do  you  say?  What  is  that? 
Pierrot  is  deceiving  you? 

Columbine.  He  is  not  even  deceiving  me.  Oh,  if 
only  once  he  would  deceive  me!  Then,  at  least,  I  might 
be  thankful  that  he  had  had  the  grace  to  consider  me,  to 
make  some  effort  to  preserve  my  ideals. 

POLICHINELLE.     But  your  rival? 

Columbine.  My  rival,  Signor  Mage,  is  Nature. 
[PoLiCHiNELLE  IS  dumbfounded. '\  Yes,  Pierrot  is  a  poet 
— the  more  miserable  he!  He  adores  the  carmine  in  the 
roses,  but  he  disdains  it  upon  my  lips.  He  worships  the 
azure  of  the  overarching  sky,  but  he  cannot  see  it  in  the 
teardrop  which  glistens  in  my  eye.  He  drinks  sweet  per- 
fumes on  the  breezes,  but  he  will  not  quaff  them  from 
the  zephyrs  which  are  wafted  from  my  mouth.  .  .  .  Ah! 
Woe  is  me!     Woe  is  me! 

PoLiCHiNELLE.  Pierrot  a  poet?  You  are  right. 
Poetry  in  marriage  is  entirely  out  of  place.  It  is  an  in- 
truder, an  interloper,  like  anything  else  which  we  do  not 
expect.     But  these  songs  of  Harlequin's? 

Columbine.  They  are  another  complication,  Signor 
Mage.  My  misfortune,  thanks  to  the  little  pains  which 
my  husband  takes  to  deceive  me,  has  become  known  to  all 
men,  and  Harlequin  has  had  the  audacity  to  presume  to 
console  me  for  it.  He  wishes  me  to  follow  the  old  adage 
which  says  that  "Love  is  cured  by  love,"  he  .  .  . 

POLICHINELLE.     What  is  it  that  he  wishes  you  to  do? 

Columbine.  Have  no  fear,  I  shall  not  follow  his  ad- 
vice. 

POLICHINELLE.  You  are  right.  For  this  notion  that 
love  can  be  cured  by  love  is  sheer  nonsense.  Believe  me, 
there  is  no  cure  for  anything  on  earth,  outside  of  science. 
You  can  trust  me  for  that,  Signora.  I  am  a  wise  old 
man. 


LOVE  MAGIC  103 

Columbine.    That  is  the  reason  I  have  sent  for  you. 

PoLiCHiNELLE.  You  have  done  well,  my  daughter. 
[He  meditates.^  You  say  that  your  husband  has  deserted 
you,  he  has  abandoned  and  is  tired  of  you,  he  writes  verses 
— all  of  these  are  bad  signs,  very  bad.  However,  fortu- 
nately— 

Columbine.     Is  there  no  remedy? 

PoLiCHiNELLE.  One — one  which  is  well-nigh  infallible. 
\_He  draws  a  crystal  phial  from  the  recesses  of  his  robe.^ 
Take  this  phial.  In  it  has  been  brewed  a  philter,  com- 
pounded  by  magic   art  out  of   the  essence  of  your  tears. 

Columbine.     But  what  shall  I  do  with  this  philter? 

POLICHINELLE.  Whenever  Pierrot  is  pensive  and  ab- 
sorbed, wrapt  in  his  poetic  ecstasy,  let  fall  but  one  drop 
from  this  phial,  and  poesy — adieu! 

Columbine.     I  do  not  understand. 

PoLiNCHiNELLE.  Listen.  For  example,  you  say  that 
Pierrot  is  enraptured  with  the  azure  of  the  skies.  Spill 
but  one  drop,  let  fall  but  one  tear,  and  the  sky  will  be 
covered  with  thick  clouds  in  his  sight. 

Columbine.     I  understand. 

POLICHINELLE.  So,  little  by  little,  hour  by  hour,  he 
will  become  disenchanted  with  all  natural  beauty,  and  he 
will  turn  again  to  yours. 

Columbine.  Which  also  is  natural,  believe  me,  Signor 
Mage. 

POLICHINELLE.     I    believe   you — ah,    too   well!     Adieu! 

Columbine.     How  can  I  ever  thank  you? 

POLICHINELLE.  Do  not  thank  me  too  much,  or  your 
gratitude  will  overcome  my  wisdom,  and  lay  it  prostrate  in 
the   dust.     Signora!  .  .  . 

[He  bows  and  retires.^ 

Columbine.  I  am  saved.  [Calling.']  Pierrette! 
Pierrette!  [Pierrette  enters.]  Come  and  rejoice  with 
me. 

Pierrette.  [Disappointed.]  Do  you  mean — that  is  to 
say^ — Has  the  Sage  found  a  remedy?     Then — 


V04  LOVE  MAGIC 

[Endeavoring  to  conceal  a  note  which  she  is  carry- 
ing in  her  handJ\ 
Columbine.     What  is  that?    What  paper  are  you  try- 
^g  to  conceal?     {She  seizes  rV.]     A  letter  from  H^arlequin! 
Is  this  the  way  that  you  obey  my  commands? 

Pierrette.  I  gave  your  message  to  Signer  Harlequin, 
and  he  was  cast  down  into  the  uttermost  depths  when  he 
heard  that  his  song  had  given  you  pain;  and  so,  to  prove 
that  he  intended  no  offense,  he  has  written  out  the  verses 
on  this  piece  of  paper,  which  he  begged  me  to  put  into 
your  hands;  but  if  you  do  not  wish  it — 

Columbine.  No,  no,  let  me  see.  Surely  I  ought 
to  read  what  they  are.  It  is  my  duty  to  make  an  example 
of  him — a  horrible  example!  [She  runs  her  eye  over  the 
paper. '^  Words  and  phrases  of  fire,  fire  shall  put  out  your 
fire! 

Pierrette.     My  lord! — my  lady. 
Columbine.     Spirit  of  God,  aid  me  now! 

[Pierrot    enters.     He    carries   a   bunch    of   purple 
roses  in  his  hand.     As  he  advances,  he  gazes  lovingly 
from  flower  to  flower,  and  begins  meditatively  to  re- 
cite the  verses  which  he  has  composed  in  their  praiseJ\ 
Pierrot. 

Purple  petals,  rich  in  hue, 

God  has  shed  his  blood  for  you — 

[Columbine  lets  the  first  drop  fall  from  the  phial.l 

Pierrot.     [Crying   out.]     Ay! 

Columbine.  [Running  up  to  Aim.]  What  is  the  mat- 
ter? 

Pierrot.    A  thorn  pierced  my  hand. 

Columbine.  My  love,  leave  the  roses,  for  they  are  full 
of  thorns.  [She  takes  the  flowers  from  Pierrot's  hands 
and  dashes  them  violently  upon  the  ground.  They  leave  a 
purple  trail  behind  them  as  they  pass  through  the  air,  and 
then  fall,  their  stems  bare.     Pierrot  watches  them  fall  and 


LOVE  MAGIC  105 

sighs  heavily.  Columbine  flings  herself  into  his  arms."] 
What  are  you  thinking  of?  What  is  on  your  mind? 
Don't  you  know  that  my  love  is  a  flower  that  can  never 
be  stripped  bare? 


SCENE  II 

Pierrot's  garden  in  autumn.  There  are  no  more  flowers 
in  it — only  a  few  pallid  roses  and  some  hardy  chrysanthe- 
mums. At  the  back  glows  the  red  of  the  setting  sun. 
Above,  little  white  clouds  are  driven  fitfully  across  the  sky, 
while  at  intervals  gusts  of  wind  shake  the  trees  and  scatter 
the  dry  leaves  upon  the  ground,  or  rustle  them  about  in 
restless  golden  whorls. 

Columbine  and  Polichinelle  are  seated  in  the  garden. 
Columbine  is  even  more  melancholy  than  in  the  first 
scene. 

Polichinelle.  But  it  is  clearly  impossible!  Do  you 
say  that  my  remedy  produced  no  effect? 

Columbine.    A  most  marvelous  effect. 

Polichinelle.     Frankly,  then,  I  do  not  understand. 

Columbine.  The  remedy  was  worse  than  the  disease. 
Pierrot  has  ceased  to  be  a  poet,  but  he  has  become  a  phi- 
losopher. 

Polichinelle.    A  philosopher? 

Columbine.  Yes,  so  much  the  more  miserable  he! 
Your  philter  was  too  efficacious.  For  days  now  there  has 
been  no  sky  without  clouds  for  Pierrot,  no  rose  without  a 
thorn,  no  pleasure  without  loathing  and  disgust.  Even  the 
perfume  of  the  flowers  gives  him  pain,  so  that  I,  too,  have 
almost  begun  to  pity  him. 

Polichinelle.  But  have  you  manifested  your  pity  with 
tenderness  and  affection? 

Columbine.  As  affectionately  as  I  was  able;  but  alas! 
when  my  husband,  disillusioned  with  the  perfidies  and  im- 
perfections of  Nature,  turned  to  hate  and  despise  them,  he 
took  it  mto  his  head  that  my  beauty,  also,  was  a  natural 

xo6 


LOVE  MAGIC  107 

thing,  and  it  has  been  impossible  to  disabuse  him  of  it. 
You  can  imagine  the  consequence.  My  lips  seem  to  him 
like  roses,  my  eyes  like  the  sea  or  the  sky,  my  hair  like  the 
sunbeams;  and  not  only  that,  but  Pierrot  has  discovered  in 
various  parts  of  my  person  all  the  blots,  scars,  stains, 
blemishes,  tempests  and  storm-clouds  that  afflict  the  uni- 
verse or  offend  the  sense  of  beauty.  I  am  worse  off  than 
I  was  before,  Signor  Mage.  [A  pause  ensues.^  Have 
you  no  new  remedy  to  prescribe  for  this  new  evil  ? 

PoLiCHiNELLE.  It  will  be  difficult,  Signora  Columbine. 
It  seems  that  the  spirit  of  your  husband  is  obdurate  to 
love.  If  you  could  only  learn  to  forget,  to  resign  your- 
self— 

Columbine.  Is  that  all  your  boasted  science  can  do? 
Know  then  that  I  do  not  wish  to  resign  myself;  I  wish  to 
love.     I  am  looking  for  a  cure,  not  for  consolation. 

PoLiCHiNELLE.  Do  not  be  angry  with  me,  lady.  The 
problem  is  stubborn  and  involved.  But  I  shall  study  it 
in  my  laboratory,  and  I  swear  to  you  that  I  will  never 
emerge  from  it  so  long  as  I  shall  live,  unless  I  have  found 
an  infallible  medicine.     [He  ffoes  out.^ 

Columbine.     Science  and  wisdom  hear! 
[Pierrette  enters.] 

Pierrette.  Wisdom  ?  I  should  like  to  know  what  wis- 
dom has  got  to  do  with  love?  What  does  that  old  impostor 
know  about  it  anyway?     At  his  age! 

Columbine.     Age  is  a  guarantee  of  knowledge. 

Pierrette.  Not  to  me.  It  may  be  in  some  things,  but 
in  affairs  of  the  heart  practice  makes  more  perfect  than 
learning.  In  love,  experience  is  the  key  which  opens  hearts ; 
if  it  is  not  used,  it  rusts.  And  I  do  not  need  to  ask  you 
how  long  it  must  be  since  Signor  Polichinelle  has  used 
his  key. 

Columbine.  Will  you  always  destroy  my  illusions, 
Pierrette  ? 

Pierrette.  Yes,  because  one  reality  is  worth  a  thou- 
sand illusions.     Signor  Harlequin — 


io8  LOVE  MAGIC 

Columbine.     Do  not  talk  to  me  about  Harlequin! 

Pierrette.  Signer  Harlequin  is  a  reality.  Believe  me, 
my  lady,  there  is  no  illusion  about  him.  I  know,  and  I 
can  answer  for  it.  Besides,  you  must  be  convinced  by  this 
time  that  all  the  drugs  of  the  sorcerers  are  of  no  avail  to 
win  back  the  heart  of  Signor  Pierrot. 

Columbine.    Alas!     So  I  am.    Woe  is  me! 

Pierrette.  So  that  you  will  never  find  a  remedy  through 
the  aid  of  science? 

Columbine.     I  fear  it. 

Pierrette.  Leave  it  to  me,  then,  and  let  me  put  my 
plan  into  execution. 

Columbine.  What  plan?  What  is  it  that  you  wish 
to  do? 

Pierrette.  You  will  soon  see.  Without  any  other  sci- 
ence than  experience,  which  I  have  picked  up  on  my  way 
through  the  world,  I  shall  save  you.  The  first  thing  to 
do  is  to  receive  Harlequin. 

Columbine.     Pierrette! 

Pierrette.  Though  it  be  only  to  undeceive  him.  One 
angry  word  from  your  lips  would  have  a  thousand  times 
more  effect  than  a  thousand  sermons  from  mine,  which, 
to  tell  the  truth,  were  not  made  for  sermons. — But  in  any 
case,  he  is  here. 

[Harlequin  enters  and  throws  himself  at  Colum- 
bine's feet.l 

Harlequin.  Queen  of  my  soul,  sun  of  my  spirit,  mag- 
net and  pole  of  my  desire! 

Columbine.  What  is  this?  Rise! — Pierrette,  is  this 
the  way  that  you  obey  my  commands? 

Pierrette.  Pardon,  lady,  but  it  is  too  much  for  you 
to  expect  me  to  stand  forever  between  the  fire  and  the 
wall.  You  don't  know  to  what  dangers  I  have  been  ex- 
posed, contending  continually  against  the  ardors  of  Signor 
Harlequin ! 

Harlequin.    My  lady,  in  turn  I  beseech  you  to  pardon 


LOVE  MAGIC  109 

Pierrette.     It  was  not   her  negligence,   but  my  audacity, 
which  caused  this  wrong,  if  wrong  it  be. 

Columbine.     How? 

Harlequin.  Does  the  heart  overwhelmed  in  darkness 
sin  because  it  desires  the  light? 

Columbine.  Desire  is  one  thing,  performance  is  an- 
other. 

Harlequin.  Columbine,  in  the  minds  of  lovers  desire 
is  performance.  The  desires  of  Love  are  mandates,  per- 
emptory as  the  laws  of  life! 

Columbine.  You  blaspheme,  Signor  Harlequin.  Cer- 
tainly, to  love  like  this  is  a  crime. 

Harlequin.  What  matter  so  long  as  it  is  love?  Do 
not  shrink  and  draw  away  from  me!  Move  closer,  lady. 
At  least  listen  to  my  tale  of  woe.  Grant  me  this  sol- 
ace— 

Columbine.  Will  you  promise  to  go  away  then  im- 
mediately, if  I  do? 

Harlequin.     If  you  ask  me  to. 

Columbine.  And  will  you  promise  never  to  come 
back? 

Harlequin.  If  you  are  not  convinced  by  my  argu- 
ments. 

Columbine.    You  may  talk. 

Harlequin.    Thanks. 

[He  kisses  her  hand.'\ 

Columbine.     I  said  talk. 

Harlequin.  My  lady,  that  was  the  irrepressible  cry 
of  my  soul. 

Columbine.  You  have  a  soul  that  has  been  most  rudely 
brought  up^. 

Pierrette.     [To  Columbine.]     Good!  Lead  him  on. 

Harlequin.  Pardon,  lady,  for  my  soul  and  for  me. 
We  have  both  hungered  through  so  many  ages  for  a  sight 
of  this  glory,  that  now  when  we  find  ourselves  in  your 
presence,  my  soul  and  I,  face  to  face,  it  is  small  wonder  that 


no  LOVE  MAGIC 

we  forget  our  ill-fortune,  and  become  boys  again,  and  throw 
to  the  winds  all  sense   of  proper  restraint. 

Columbine.  Which  my  dignity  cannot  excuse,  Signor 
Harlequin. 

Harlequin.  But  your  love  and  your  sympathy  ought 
to  excuse  it. 

Columbine.     Do  you  presume  to  talk  to  me  of  ought? 
Harlequin,     Ought  there  not  to  be  many  oughts  be- 
tween you  and  me,  Columbine,  oughts  and  never  an  ought 
not? 
Columbine.     Between  you  and  me? — ^You? 
Harlequin.    Yes,  Columbine,  me;  me — and  you.     For 
I  am  wretched  for  your  sake! 

Columbine.     It  is  not  for  my  sake. 
Harlequin.     It  may  not  be  through  your  fault. 
Columbine.     I  like  that  better. 

Harlequin.  But  it  is  the  same  to  me;  my  misery  is 
the  same,  because  I  love  you,  Columbine,  I  love  you,  I  love 
you  so  much  that  when  I  love  you  all  I  can,  I  hate  my- 
self— unhappy  that  I  am ! — because  I  cannot  love  you  more. 
I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you! 

[Each  time  that  he  says  "I  love  you''  he  kisses  her 
hands    passionately. ^ 
Columbine.     [Defending  herself  a  little,  but  not  dis- 
pleased at  heart-l     Not  so  loud,  Signor  Harlequin!     Not 
so  loud — there  may  be  an  echo  in  the  garden. 

[They  wander  off  at  the  rear,  pursuing  the  debate, 
and  disappear.^ 
PiERREn*E.     I    should    never   have   believed    it   possible 
that  the  grief  of  my  mistress  would  have  been  so  difficult  to 
console. — Ah,  me! 

[Pierrot   enters.     He  carries  a  book  in  his  hand. 

He  reads  and  meditates.^ 

Pierrot.     To    think   that   even    in    the   dewdrops — the 

radiant  tears  of  morning — there  is  a  world  of  monsters,  a 

contending  universe  of   pain!     To  know  that  the  smiling 

verdure  of  the  fields  is  but  the  mask  of  foul  decay,  the 


LOVE  MAGIC  III 

immortal  beauty  which  we  love,  the  veil  and  dull  similitude 
of  death! 

[He  paces  back  and  forth,  absorbed  in   his  medi- 
tations.^ 

Pierrette.  [Approaching  him^  sympathetically. 1^  Signer 
Pierrot — 

Pierrot.  Who  speaks  to  me?  Ah!  Is  it  you? 
[Angrily.]  Why  are  you  smiling?  Why  are  you  so 
happy  ? 

Pierrette.     Signer,  life  is  beautiful. 

Pierrot.  Do  you  know  what  you  bear  within?  A 
skeleton,  a  void,  nothing!  [A  pause  follows.}  Where  is 
your  lady? 

Pierrette.  She  was  here  a  moment  since,  so  wretched 
over  your  philosophy.  She  was  in  tears.  But  now  she 
is  consoling  herself — that  is  to  say,  she  has  company. 
Signor  Harlequin — 

Pierrot.     Hiarlequin  ? 

Pierrette.  A  most  extraordinary  young  man,  proud, 
handsome,  amorous — 

Pierrot.     What  is  that? 

Pierrette.  And  an  excellent  poet.  My  lady  could  not 
possibly  have  chosen  better  company. 

Pierrot.  Wh;at  do  you  say?  Wliy  do  you  tell  me 
these  things? 

Pierrettte.     Because  they  are  true. 

Pierrot.     What  makes  you  look  at  me  like  this? 

Pierrette.  I  was  counting  sadly  the  wrinkles  which 
philosophy  has  dug  in  your  brow. 

Pierrot.    Tell  Columbine  that  I  wish  to  see  her. 

Pierrette.  Do  you  think  it  will  be  wise  to  interrupt 
them  now? 

Pierrot.     Is  she  so  intent  upon  that  visit? 

Pierrette.  Look  and  see.  There  they  are  .  .  . 
[Pierrot  retires  and  peers  through  the  shrubbery.]  D<? 
you  see  anything? 

Pierrot.    That  Harlequin  is  a  fool. 


112  LOVE  MAGIC 

Pierrette.  Oh,  no,  he  is  not !  Why,  all  the  while  one 
is  with  him,  he  has  such  winning  ways.  [Columbine 
laughsJ]  My  lady  laughs.  Poor  lady!  It  is  so  long  since 
I  have  heard  her  laugh.  Ah!  Look! — I  wondered  what 
they  were  doing.  That  was  a  happy  stroke  of  Signor 
Harlequin's.  But  what  is  the  matter?  [Pierrot  starts 
to  run  and  rushes  headlong  off  the  stage  like  one  possessed.^ 
Where  are  you  going?  Ah,  ha,  ha,  ha!  See  him  run! 
Ha,  ha,  ha!  A  jealous  man  is  always  ridiculous!  There 
he  is  now.  He  is  furious  .  .  .  My  lady  pleads  for  mercy. 
And  Signor  Harlequin — he  effaces  himself — he  fades 
modestly  out  of  sight   ...    I  am  sorry  for  that  man! 

\_The  sound  of  rude  voices  is  heard  in  the  garden; 
shortly  afterward  Harlequin  emerges  from  the  trees. 
He  comes  forward  with  a  dejected,  disappointed  air, 
and  hurries  rapidly  across  the  stage.^ 

Pierrette.  [Detaining  him-l  What  is  the  matter, 
Signor  Hiarlequin?  Was  not  my  lady  willing  to  be  con- 
soled? 

Harlequin.     Your  lady  is  a  model  of  conjugal  fidelity. 

Pierrette.  Who  told  you  to  go  wandering  in  other 
people's  gardens,  exploring  hearts  which  have  masters? 
Better  stick  to  the  highways  and  the  byways,  Signor  Rover, 
and  to  fields  which  are  virgin. 

Harlequin.     Do  you  know  any? 

Pierrette.  That  is  a  reflection  upon  me.  What  do 
you   mean,    Signor    Harlequin? 

Harlequin.     I  mean  any  disposed  to  receive  me? 

Pierrette.  Why,  Signor  Harlequin!  I — What  do 
you  want  me  to  say  ?  I  am  a  young  and  inexperienced  girl, 
but  I  am  sure  that  there  must  be  someone — perhaps  not 
so  very  far  away.  You  know  what  the  song  says:  "When 
least  you  expect  it" — And  I  never  expected  it.  Don't 
look  at  me  like  that  .    .    . 

[J  pause  ensues.  Pierrette's  eyes  become  eloquent 
in  the  silence  of  her  lips,  and  pronounce  a  significant 
discourse. "] 


LOVE  MAGIC  113 

Harlequin.  [With  sudden  resolution.']  G)uld  you 
love  me,  Pierrette? 

Pierrette.     Ha,    ha,    ha!     Do   you    think    I    win    my 
victories  through  other  people's  arms? 
Harlequin.     Don't  be  cruel! 

Pierrette.  My  lady  is  much  more  beautiful  than  I. 
Harlequin.  Illusion!  The  beauty  of  woman  is  all 
one  great  store,  one  vast  and  perfect  body,  of  which  every 
woman  is  but  an  individual  part.  Your  lady  is  beautiful, 
you  are  as  beautiful  as  she — both  different  parts  of  the 
same  great  beauty. 

Pierrette.  But,  I  wonder,  just  what  part  of  this  great 
beauty  that  you  tell  me  of,  am  I  ? 

Harlequin.  From  what  I  feel,  you  must  be  very  near 
the  heart!     [They  embrace.^ 

[Pierrot  and  Columbine  re-enter  and  advance  into 
the  garden.     They  also  are  locked  in  an  embrace,  and 
gaze  steadfastly  into  each  other  s  eyes,  full  of  happi- 
ness."] 
Columbine.     Swear  to  me  that  you  are  telling  me  the 
truth,  Pierrot. 

Pierrot.  I  swear  it.  The  fear  of  losing  you  has  re- 
vealed to  me  the  truth  that  your  love  was  the  soul  of  my 
life.  Your  words  are  the  most  beautiful  of  poems,  and 
your  embraces  the  most  enduring  of  philosophies. 

Polichinelle.  [Entering  precipitately  with  a  phial  in 
his  hand.]  Signora,  here  is  the  philter,  the  love  magic, 
the  true,  the  infallible  medicine! 

[All   laugh   gaily,  and   Pierrette    carries   her  im- 
pertinence so  far  as  to  mimic  the  magician  with  many 
a   comic  grimace.     Polichinelle   stares  at   them    in 
amazement.     The  phial  which  he  carries  in  his  hands 
explodes  with  a  loud  report,  and  the  Elixir  of  Love  is 
scattered  upon  the  ground. 
Pierrette.     It  was  about  time  to  explode  it. 
Polichinelle.    What  is  this  I  see? 
Pierrette.    What  you  see,  Signor  Mage,  is  simply  this: 


114  LOVE  MAGIC 

that  science  is  superfluous  when  it  comes  to  afltairs  of  the 
heart.  There  all  wisdom  is  vain,  and  all  philters  are 
colored  water.  For  love  is  cured  by  love,  and  disdain  by 
jealousy;  so  it  has  been  since  the  beginning  of  the  world, 
and  so  it  will  be  until  the  world  has  ceased  to  be.  Spells 
and  conjurations  are  of  very  little  use.  The  love  that  has 
fallen  asleep  through  excess  of  good  fortune  is  not  be  awak- 
ened again  without  the  menace  of  another  love  which  is  more 
passionate,  and  which  burns  like  youth's  fire.  That  is  all 
there  is  to  it.  My  master  was  asleep  because  my  lady 
loved  him  too  much,  and  he  has  waked  at  the  fear  that  she 
might  cease  to  love  him  so.     Don't  you  see? 

PoLiCHiNELLE.  Hum — what  I  see.  But — [Pointing 
at    Harlequin.]     Wasn't   this   gentleman    also    in    love? 

Pierrette.     Head  over  heels;  you  can  surely  see  it. 

PoLiCHiNELLE.     [Protesting. '\     But  not  with  you. 

Pierrette.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  He  thought  not  himself,  but 
he  soon  found  his  mistake,  through  my  assistance — and  the 
force  of  circumstances. 

Polichinelle.     Hiim! 

Harlequin.  Although  I  am  a  young  man,  Signer 
Polichinelle,  and  a  poet,  I  too  have  my  philosophy.  And 
in  the  first  chapter,  there  is  this  maxim:  "He  who  refuses 
to  console  himself  for  the  kisses  which  he  cannot  get,  by 
those  the  girls  will  give,  is  mad  entirely." 

[The  sorcerer,  scandalized,  takes  to  his  heels,  cover- 
ing his  ears  with  his  hands,  then  throwing  his  arms  into 
the  air,  brandishing  them  wildly.  Soft,  sweet  music 
sounds,  and  the  two  pairs  of  lovers  begin  a  slow  and 
stately  dance. '^ 

Curtain 


POOR  JOHN 

COMEDY  IN  ONE  ACT 

TEATRO  LARA,  MADRID 
1912 

PACIFIC  GROVE,  CALIFORNIA 

1920 

THEATRE,  LONDON 
1928 


CHARACTERS 


Mariana',  aged  20 
John,  aged  22 
Antonio,  aged  23 
Mama  Ines,  aged  66 
Mama  Pepa,  aged  70 
Don  Carlos,  aged  48 
Two  Factory  H^^nds 
Two  Maids 


POOR  JOHN 

A  formal  garden  en  parterre.  A  number  of  wicker  arm 
chairs,  rocking  chairs  and  a  chaise  longue,  all  of  which  are 
plentifully  provided  with  cretonne  cushions,  are  set  out  in 
the  shade  of  a  sturdy  walnut  tree.  Two  tables  stand  near 
by,  one  contairiing  a  tray  with  fruit  and  breakfast  service, 
the  other,  boxes  of  candy,  flowers,  and  a  bundle  of  lace  tied 
with  ribbon.     There  are  flowers  also  on  the  chaise  longue. 

Mama  Pepa  and  Mama  Ines  are  seated  together. 
Mama  Ines  is  sewing.  Mama  Pepa  has  been  reading,  and 
removes  her  spectacles,  wipes  them  with  her  handkerchief, 
and  puts  them  on  again. 

Mama  Pepa.     It  is  going  to  rain  this  afternoon. 

Mama  Ines.  Nothing  of  the  sort!  What  makes  you 
think  it  is  going  to  rain? 

Mama  Pepa.     Don't  you  see  that  cloud  coming  up  ? 

Mama  Ines.    Yes,  it  is  wind. 

Mama  Pepa.     I  say  it  is  rain.     My  leg  tells  me  so. 

Mama  Ines,  Well,  my  arm  tells  me  that  we  shall  have 
fine  weather  for  the  rest  of  the  week. 

Mama  Pepa.  God  help  us  both !  [^The  factory  whistle 
blows.~\  There  goes  the  whistle.  The  factory  clock  must 
be  fast  today. 

Mama  Ines.  Nothing  of  the  sort.  How  can  it  be 
fast  when  it  was  eight  o'clock  ten  minutes  ago? 

Mama  Pepa.     Did  your  arm  tell  you  that? 

Mama  Ines.  No,  the  sun  told  me.  It  is  around  on  the 
second  stone  in  the  gallery  floor  already. 

Mariana.  [^Speaking  outside.^  Good-bye,  good-bye! 
Thank  you,  thank  you  all  so  much  .  .  .  [Laughing.^  Of 
course!     Thanks  awfully  just  the  same.     Good-bye,  good- 

119 


I20  POOR  JOHN 

bye!  [She  enters  carrying  a  bouquet  of  roses  in  one  hand.^ 
I  believe  they  all  love  me.  Everybody  seemed  so  happy 
as  they  w^ent  away.  Perhaps  they  really  do  love  me, 
too;  exerything  in  this  world  cannot  be  put  on.  [She 
goes  over  to  the  table.'\  Roses,  lilies,  carnations  .  .  • 
Gracious!  And  chocolates!  [Taking  one.^  I  must  save 
a  few,  though,  for  John.  Poor  boy,  he  has  such  a  sweet 
tooth — just  like  me!  Our  tastes  are  the  same  in  every- 
thing. [The  old  ladies  cough.  Mariana  looks  up,  but 
pays  no  attention.^  Isn't  it  too  lovely  to  be  twenty  and 
have  so  many  presents?  [The  whistle  blows  again.^  The 
second  whistle!  It  sounds  more  like  a  ship's  siren  than 
it  does  like  a  factory  whistle.  I  should  like  to  go  on  a  long, 
long  voyage. 

Mama  Pepa.     Yes,  and  get  sea-sick. 

Mariana.  What  of  it?  I  should  go  ashore  on  some 
islands  which  are  nowhere  on  the  map,  and  discover  them, 
and  civilize  the  natives — that  is,  not  altogether,  because 
then  they  would  have  to  wear  trousers  and  gloves  and 
top-hats.  Men  are  never  so  ugly  as  when  they  are  all 
dressed  up. 

Mama  Ines.  You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking 
about. 

Mariana.  Mama  Pepa  and  Mama  Ines,  you  two  dear 
old  grandmothers,  I  am  so  happy!  But,  oh,  how  I  do  long 
to  be  so  much  happier! 

Mama  Pepa.     It  would  make  no  difference  to  you. 

Mariana.  Yes,  it  would ;  that  is,  it  seems  to  me  it 
would  make  a  great  deal  of  difference.  I  am  happy  now 
because  the  sun  shines  and  I  am  twenty,  and  there  is  noth- 
ing the  matter  with  me,  I  thank  God  for  that.  Every- 
thing seems  to  be  so  simple  and  easy,  so  much  a  matter  of 
course.  But  happiness  must  be  something  a  great  deal 
more — it  must  be  more  inside  of  you,  don't  you  know? 
It  must  be  something  awfully  solemn.  No,  not  exactly 
solemn  either.  I  mean  .  .  .  Anyway,  sometimes  a  girl 
feels  so  happy  that  she  would  just  love  to  cry. 


POOR  JOHN  121 

Mama  Pe'pa.  Mercy  on  us!  What  is  wrong  with  the 
child? 

Mariana.  You  will  find  out  when  the  time  comes — 
if  the  time  ever  does  come. 

Mama  Ines.     She  is  out  of  her  head. 

Mariana.  My  two  dear,  old  respectable  grandmothers, 
do  you  really  think  that  the  time  ever  will  come?  Do  you 
really?     Or  are  you  just  perfectly  certain  that  it  will  not? 

Mama  Pepa.     Think  what  time  will  come? 

Mariana.  The  time  that  every  girl  is  longing  for, 
without  having  any  idea  what  it  is? 

Mama  Ines.  My  dear,  you  will  find  out  soon  enough 
for  yourself  that  everything  in  life  is  either  unpleasant,  or 
else  it  comes  too  late. 

Mariana.     God  bless  us! 

Mama  Pepa.  Pay  no  attention  to  what  she  says;  it  all 
depends  upon  the  point  of  view.  When  the  night  is  darkest, 
God  sends  the  morning.  Don't  allow  yourself  to  brood 
and  mope.  However  bad  things  may  be,  they  might  be 
worse,  or  else  we  should  not  be  here  to  see  them.  A 
chicken  may  be  light-hearted  and  yet  have  a  stone  in  its 
gizzard. 

Mariana.  Do  you  know  what  the  factory  girls  say? 
That  I  ought  to  pray  for  a  sweetheart  every  day,  because 
it's  high  time  for  me  to  have  one. 

Mama  Ines.  What  would  you  do  with  a  sweetheart 
at  your  age? 

Mama  Pepa.  She  could  get  married,  like  everybody 
else. 

Mariana.  Of  course!  And  then  I  could  have  lots  of 
children.  I  mean  to  have  ten  at  least,  all  boys,  hard 
workers,  strong,  clever,  fearless,  brave,  so  that  they  can 
travel  all  over  the  world  doing  great  and  splendid  things, 
and  build  roads  and  factories  and  houses  and  schools,  and 
make  laws  and  conduct  revolutions.  They  will  be  strong 
as  castles,  every  one  of  them.  I  believe  that  ten  real  men 
would  prove  the  salvation  of  any  country.     [Discovering 


122  POOR  JOHN 

her  father,  Don  Carlos^  who  enters.']  Father,  how  many 
ministers  have  we  in  the  Spanish  cabinet? 

Don  Carlos.  Such  as  they  are,  I  believe  there  are 
eight. 

Mariana.  Then  I  shall  have  two  over.  One  can  be 
a  poet  and  the  other  a  philosopher.  And  a  grateful  coun- 
try will  erect  a  statue  to  my  memory! 

Don  Carlos.     What  is  all  this  nonsense  ? 

Mariana.  Congratulate  me.  This  is  my  birthday.  I 
am  of  age — I  am  twenty.  [Submitting  to  an  embrace.] 
Aha!  Are  you  sorry?  You  seem  sad.  [Sympathetically.] 
I  know  ...  it  is  mother. 

Mama  Pepa.  Carlos,  she  looks  more  like  my  poor 
daughter  every  day. 

Don  Carlos.    Yes,  she  does. 

Mama  Ines.  Nothing  of  the  sort!  She  is  the  living 
image  of  her  father. 

Don  Carlos.     Omitting  all  his  faults,  let  us  hope. 

Mama  Ines.  There  are  no  faults  to  omit.  I  don't 
say  so  because  he  is  my  son,  but  I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
him  when  he  was  twenty-five. 

Mama  Pepa.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  my  daughter" 
when  she  was  eighteen. 

Mariana.  Well,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  look  at  me. 
How  dreadfully  embarrassing  it  is  to  be  such  a  beautiful 
girl! 

Mama  Pepa.    Thank  Heaven,  she  is  good-natured. 

Mama  Ines.     Yes,  it  is  a  family  trait. 

Mama  Pepa.     Naturally. 

Mariana.  [To  her  father.]  Do  look  at  all  my  pres- 
ents! The  flowers  are  from  the  factory  hands,  the  candies 
from  the  girls  at  the  sewing-school,  and  the  Sunday  School 
children  sent  me  this  piece  of  lace.  The  cross  is  from 
Mama  Pepa,  and  the  rosary  from  Mama  Ines,  with  real 
coral  beads,  so  you  see  I  have  two  really  good  grandmothers, 
as  far  as  one  can  judge  from  their  presents.  What  are 
you  going  to  give  me? 


POOR  JOHN  123 

Don  Carlos.  Whatever  you  like.  [Taking  out  his 
pocket-book.} 

Mariana.  No,  don't  give  me  any  money;  I  have  more 
than  I  know  what  to  do  with.  We  started  the  sewing- 
school  to  help  the  poor  girls  along,  but  now  we  are  all 
making  our  fortunes.  I  had  nothing  myself,  yet  we  can 
scarcely  keep  up  with  the  orders.  The  preserves  that  Mama 
Ines  and  I  put  up  are  a  success,  too,  though  we  only  be- 
gan because  it  was  such  a  pity  to  throw  the  fruit  away. 
We  have  had  inquiries,  even,  from  a  shop  in  Madrid. 

Don  Carlos.     Name  anything  you  wish. 

Mariana.  I  would  if  I  dared.  There  is  one  thing — 
yes,  I  am  going  to  ask  for  it.  Now  don't  you  say  no! 
Promise  not  to  be  angry.  It  ...  it  ...  it  isn't  for 
myself,  but  it  is  just  the  same,  you  know;  it's  for  John. 

Don  Carlos.     For  John? 

[Both  old  ladies  cough.     Mariana  turns  and  glares 
at  them.] 

Mariana.  Yes,  it's  for  John  .  .  .  that  is,  not  exactly 
for  him  either,  it's  for  his  father.  Don't  you  see?  I 
told  you  that  I  didn't  want  money,  but  now  that  I  come 
to  think  of  it,  it  is  money.  At  least  it  is  something  very 
like  it. 

Don  Carlos.    Well,  is  it  or  is  it  not? 

Mariana.  Don't  be  cross.  No,  it  isn't  money. 
Only  I  want  you  to  go  surety  for  them  so  that  they  won't 
lose  their  house. 

Don  Carlos.  Do  you  expect  me  to  guarantee  all  the 
old  Marquis's  bad  debts? 

Mariana.     Why,  papa! 

Don  Carlos.  Do  you  realize  what  it  means  to  stand 
sponsor  for  a  man  of  that  character? 

Mariana.  All  they  have  left  is  the  house,  and  now 
they  are  going  to  lose  that  for  a  miserable  trifle  which  they 
borrowed  of  that  skinflint.  John's  mother  is  sick,  too,  and 
John  is  worried  about  her.  Poor  John!  I  know  that  to 
be  responsible  for  them — that  is,  for  John's  father — I  sup- 


124  POOR  JOHN 

pose  though  he  can't  help  it;  it's  the  way  he  is  made.  I 
tell  you  what  to  do.  You  buy  the  mortgage,  and  then  they 
can  owe  the  money  to  you.  You  will  never  put  them  out, 
so  everybody  will  be  satisfied. 

Don  Carlos.     You  have  strange  ideas  of  business. 

Mariana.  It  isn't  business,  it's  a  birthday  present.  I 
am  twenty — think  of  it,  twenty!  What  wouldn't  you  give 
to  be  twenty  again?  And  you  are,  don't  you  see,  because 
I  am,  and  whatever  I  am,  is  yours.  Besides,  I  promise 
never  to  do  it  again.  [Embracing  himJl  Oh,  haven't  I 
a  rich  and  stingy  father!  Do  say  yes!  Look  me  in  the 
eye  and  say  yes !     Say  yes ! 

Don  Carlos.  Very  well,  to  please  you.  [SmiUng.'\ 
But  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more  about  it.  When  John 
comes,  send  him  to  me,  and  we  will  talk  it  over;  I  shall 
have  nothing  to  do  with  his  father.  Only  I  want  you  to 
understand  that  it  is  casting  pearls  before  swine;  they  will 
be  worse  off  by  the  end  of  the  month.  However,  to  please 
you — 

Mariana.     Thanks,  thanks,  oh  thanks! 

Don  Carlos.  Do  not  thank  me,  for  I  am  doing  it 
against  my  will.     Enough  for  the  present! 

Mariana.     Where  are  you  going? 

Don  Carlos.     Back  to  the  factory. 

Mariana.  How  you  do  love  to  see  people  work!  Re- 
member, be  home  on  the  stroke  of  twelve,  because  Mama 
Ines  has  promised  us  all  sorts  of  good  things,  and  if  the  rice 
is  spoiled,  we  shall  be  lost.  It  will  be  a  lovely  surprise,  too, 
for  poor  John ! 

[Don  Carlos  goes  out.'] 

Mama  Pepa.     [Scornfully.']     Poor  John! 

Mama  Ines.  Some  day  we  are  going  to  get  sick  of 
poor   John. 

Mariana.     Do  you  think  so? 

Mama  Ines.  Before  long  we  shall  have  him  in  the 
soup. 

Mariana.     Nonsense ! 


POOR  JOHN  125 

Mama  Pepa.  Mama  Ines  is  right,  my  dear.  I  do  not 
approve  myself  of  a  young  lady  of  twenty  keeping  com- 
pany with  a  young  gentleman  of  twenty-two.  He  follows 
you  wherever  you  go. 

Mama  Ines.  I  see  nothing  to  object  to  in  that.  She 
and  John  were  brought  up  together,  almost  like  brother 
and  sister.  There  is  no  harm  in  their  going  about.  What 
I  do  not  like  is  having  the  child  take  an  interest  in  him  which 
Is  improper. 

Mama  Pepa.  I  see  nothing  improper  in  that.  It  is 
the  duty  of  those  who  have  plenty  to  be  generous  with  those 
who  have  not.  What  I  am  afraid  of  is  that  she  may  en- 
courage him  to  expect  something  else. 

Mama  Ines.  Nothing  of  the  sort.  He  is  as  modest  as 
a  mallow  and  as  good  as  God's  bread. 

Mama  Pepa.  He  may  be  as  good  for  all  I  know,  but 
he  is  a  man,  and  men — 

Mama  Ines.  Do  you  think  you  can  tell  me  anything 
about  men,  Mama  Pepa? 

Mama  Pepa.     Probably  not.     You  know  it  all  already. 

Mama  Ines.     What  am  I  to  understand  by  that  remark? 

Mariana.  Come,  come,  don't  be  angry,  you  two  dear 
grandmothers !  What  if  John  is  good  ?  Well,  so  much  the 
better  for  him.  What  if  I  do  love  him?  Hie  loves  me 
as  much,  at  the  very  least.  We  have  always  been  together, 
so  nobody  is  surprised;  it  has  become  a  habit.  I  help  him 
whenever  I  can  because  I  am  rich  and  he  is  poor.  Be- 
sides, everybody  has  somebody  to  look  out  for;  you  have  me, 
and  I  have  John.  So  I  say  God  help  us  all!  Here  he 
comes  as  calm  and  placid  as  can  be. 

Mama  Ines.  If  he  is  coming,  I  am  going.  There  is 
plenty  to  be  done  in  the  kitchen,  and  it  behooves  us  all  to 
roll  up  our  sleeves. 

Mama  Pepa.  In  that  case,  I  had  better  run  and  feed 
the  canaries. 

[Mama  Ines  and  Mama  Pepa  go  out.'] 

Mariana.     [Laughing.]     Enter  the  ogre.     Poor  John! 


126  POOR  JOHN 

[John  appears.  He  is  a  young  man  of  winning  per- 
sonality, distinguished  in  manner  and  faultless  in  dress, 
but  evidently  depressed  and  greatly  cast  down.^ 

John.    May  I  .  .  .  ? 

Mariana.     Come  in. 

John.     [Advancing.'\     What  were  you  laughing  at? 

Mariana.     My  grandmothers  are  jealous  of  you. 

John.     Your  grandmothers  hate  the  sight  of  me. 

Mariana.  Mama  Ines  says  that  you  are  as  good  as 
God's  bread. 

John.     A  polite  way  of  intimating  that  a  man  is  a  fool. 

Mariana.    Why  do  you  look  at  me? 

John.  You  are  entirely  too  lovely  for  this  hour  in  the 
morning. 

Mariana.  I  am  not  as  lovely  as  I  was,  for  I  am  aging 
very  rapidly.     Don't  you  notice  it? 

John.    You? 

Mariana.  Do  you  notice  anything  unusual  in  my  face? 
Don't  I  seem  serious?  I  am  a  year  older  at  least  than  I 
was  yesterday. 

John.     A  year  older  than  you  were  yesterday? 

Mariana.  Exactly.  I  was  nineteen  yesterday  and  I 
am  twenty  today. 

John.    Well,  \  am  2i  fool! 

Mariana.     [LaughingJ]     I  accept  your  congratulations. 

John.     I  am  a  blockhead,  an  idiot  not  to  remember! 

Mariana.     [Laughs.'\ 

John.  Don't  laugh.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  yester- 
day? 

Mariana.  So  as  to  be  able  to  remind  you  that  you 
had  forgotten  today — as  usual,  of  course. 

John.     Mariana,  you  are  not  fair  with  me. 

Mariana.  Of  course  not!  But  look  at  all  the  bonbons 
I  have  saved  for  you.  Help  yourself.  Besides,  I  have  good 
news.     How  is  your  mother? 

John.  What  do  you  expect?  Her  cough  is  worse,  she 
is  exhausted.     Then,  by  some  accident,  she  heard  about  the 


POOR  JOHN  127 

house,  although  we  intended  to  keep  it  from  her.  So  now 
she  has  something  else  to  worry  over.  She  says  that  if  we 
are  compelled  to  give  it  up,  it  will  kill  her;  she  will  die. 
That  is  all  there  is  about  it. 

Mariana.     How  does  your  father  feel? 

John.     Father  says  he  will  shoot  himself. 

Mariana.     He  never  will. 

John.  I  know,  but  mother  believes  iiim.  Whatever 
he  says,  she  takes  literally.  Mariana,  we  have  lost  our 
home.  This  is  not  living.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do 
if  it  were  not  for  you.     If  it  were  not — 

Mariana.     If  it  were  not? 

John.  If  it  were  not  for  you,  /  might  be  the  one  who 
shot  my-self. 

Mariana.     You  certainly  are  a  brave  man! 

John.  How  can  you  expect  a  man  to  be  brave  when 
he  meets  with  nothing  in  life  but  misfortune?  Everything 
has  gone  wrong  with  me  since  the  day  I  was  born.  What- 
ever I  put  my  hand  to  fails  utterly.  You  know  it  better 
than  I  do.  I  was  brought  up  to  be  rich,  and  I  arrf  poor. 
I  studied  law,  and  I  can  not  string  three  words  together. 
A  man  must  be  strong  in  that  profession,  he  must  have 
vigor  of  body  and  mind,  yet  I  am  all  out  of  breath  if  I 
walk  up  a  hill ;  I  have  not  the  heart  to  crush  even  a  fly.  To 
save  the  little  that  remains  to  us  after  the  folly  of  my 
father,  I  need  to  be  unscrupulous  and  bold,  yet  my  mother, 
God  bless  her,  has  taught  me  to  be  good,  good,  always  good, 
like  God's  bread,  as  you  have  just  heard  from  your  grand- 
mother. 

Mariana.     [Laughs.'\ 

John.  Yes,  laugh.  I  have  a  letter  which  I  wish  you 
would  translate  into  English.  You  can  help  me.  It  will 
only  be  time  wasted,  but  never  mind.  It  is  to  some  lord 
who  is  visiting  the  province  in  search  of  antiques — fabulous 
creatures,  are  they  not?  He  might  stop  in  at  our  house  and 
offer  us  a  handful  of  duros  for  the  silver  which  still  re- 
mains in  the  chapel. 


128  POOR  JOHN 

Mariana.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  would 
sell  the  chapel  silver? 

John.  Yes,  and  the  genealogical  tree  that  hangs  in 
the  drawing-room.  I  have  an  idea  that  it  might  be  w^orth 
a  iew  pesetas. 

Mariana.     Why,  it  vi^ould  be  like  selling  your  name! 

John.  My  name?  We  would  sell  our  souls,  if  Satan 
had  not  abandoned  the  practise  of  buying  them. 

Mariana.     Hush,  you  heretic! 

John.     But  I  weary  you  with  my  troubles. 

Mariana.  No,  I  was  only  thinking  what  a  strange 
thing  life  is.  Why  is  it  that  some  people  always  have 
good  luck,  while  others  are  always  down?  Everything  al- 
ways turns  out  well  with  me. 

John.     lEarnestly.]     Because  you  deserve  it. 

Mariana.  Nobody  deserves  anything,  because  nobody 
chooses  his  disposition,  or  the  place  in  life  he  is  going  to  fill. 

John.     Now  you  are  the  one  who  is  talking  heresy. 

Mariana.  Then  I  am  sorry,  for  it  is  the  truth.  What 
have  I  ever  done  to  deserve  anything?  I  have  simply  lived 
and  have  been  happy,  and  that  is  the  way  I  go  on.  I  thank 
God  again  and  again  for  all  my  happiness  whenever  I  re- 
member how  good  He  has  been  to  me,  but  most  of  the 
time  I  forget  even  that.  I  do  not  believe  that  I  have  had 
one  sorrow  since  the  day  I  was  born — I  mean  one  real 
sorrow,  that  was  my  own.  When  my  mother  died,  I  was 
too  young.  Of  course,  I  am  sorry  for  other  people  who 
are  unhappy,  but  all  the  while  I  am  happy  myself.  I  have 
never  been  ill.  I  never  had  any  trouble  with  my  lessons,  like 
most  children.  Nobody  ever  found  fault  with  me,  and  what- 
ever I  do  prospers.  Yet  all  the  while,  I  hear  people  com- 
plain. The  times  are  hard,  they  say.  So  I  suppose  my 
good  luck,  which  seems  to  me  the  most  natural  thing  in 
the  world,  is  nothing  short  of  miraculous,  and  I  begin  to 
ask  myself  when  I  think  it  over:  "Why  is  it,  good  God, 
why  is  it?" 


POOR  JOHN  129 

John.    Accept  it  and  do  not  think  it  over. 

Mariana.     Sometimes  I  am  terribly  provoked  with  you. 

John.    Why? 

Mariana.  Because  you  are  so  meek.  Whatever  happens, 
you  resign  yourself  and  submit  to  it ;  you  ask  no  questions, 
I  believe  that  you  walk  through  the  world  with  your  eyes 
shut,  and  that  is  why  you  bump  your  head  against  stone 
walls  all  the  time. 

John.  Please  don't  be  angry  with  me.  I  cannot  bear 
it. 

[He  covers  his  face  with  his  hands.'\ 

Mariana.     Does  your  head  ache? 

John.    A  little. 

Mariana.  [^Drawing  near.'\  You  look  pale.  Have 
some  coffee? 

John.     No,  I  have  drunk  too  much  already. 

Mariana.  Last  night?  I  knew  it.  You  sat  up  read' 
ing,/     How  late  was  it  before  you  went  to  bed? 

John.  It  was  morning.  Don't  be  angry  with  me. 
You  were  awake  yourself. 

Mariana.     I?     Goodness  gracious! 

John.  There  was  a  light  burning  in  your  room  all 
night. 

Mariana.  [Laughing.'\  Because  I  fell  asleep  so  quickly 
that  I  didn't  have  time  to  put  it  out.  What  did  you 
think?  I  rode  to  Robledo  yesterday  to  see  my  cousins,  and 
we  played  tennis,  I  don't  know  how  long,  and  then  we 
went  rowing,  so  I  was  tired  out  when  I  came  home. 
I  am  ashamed  to  tell  you,  but  I  never  went  to  bed  at  all. 
I  knelt  down  by  the  bed  to  say  my  prayers,  and  when  I 
came  to,  it  was  morning.  I  fell  asleep  with  the  first 
Pater  Noster. 

John.     You  must  feel  ill  today. 

Mariana.  Don't  you  believe  it!  My  eyes  were  a  little 
heavy  at  first,  but  a  cold  shower,  and  no  one  could  ever 
have  suspected  it. 


\ 


130  POOR  JOHN 

John.  You  are  a  cold  shower,  my  dear  girl,  from  head 
to  heels,  and  a  draught  of  health,  outside  and  inside  sun- 
shine and  morning.     I   envy  you,   and   how   I   love  you! 

Mariana.  How  you  say  it!  Come,  we  had  better 
write  that  letter.  You  might  dictate  it  in  Spanish,  al- 
though it  will  be  a  waste  of  time,  now  that  I  think  of  it. 
I  told  you  that  I  had  good  news  for  you,  and  you  haven't 
even  asked  me  what  it  was.  However,  I  remembered  my 
own  birthday,  so  I  asked  father  for  a  present.  You  could 
never  guess  what  he  gave  me — the  mortgage! 

John.     [Not  comprehending. '\     The  mortgage? 

Mariana.  Yes,  yours — your  mortgage.  Don't  you  re- 
member? The  mortgage  which  is  held  by  that  man  who 
threatened  to  foreclose  and  sell  your  house.  My  father 
is  going  to  pay  it  off,  whatever  it  is,  and  then  you  can 
owe  it  to  him,  just  as  you  did  to  the  other  man,  only 
father  won't  foreclose,  so  you  can  stay  on  and  live  in  the 
house  forever.  [Greatly  affected.^  And  you  won't  have 
to  sell  the  silver  or  the  family  tree  either! 

John.     Mariana! 

Mariana.  Hurry  and  see  father  and  you  can  fix  every- 
thing. 

John.     [Choking.']     Mariana! 

Mariana.     Won't  your  mother  be  happy? 

John.  Mariana!  [Seizing  both  her  hands.]  You  are 
the  best  woman  in  the  world.  Nobody  else  would  ever 
have  dreamed  of  siach  a  thing.  Thank  you,  thank  you! 
I  can  never  thank  you  enough.  Oh,  Mariana,  how  it 
humiliates  me,  and  how  it  makes  me  happy!  Because  it 
is  charity,  I  know  that  it  is  charity,  but  blessed  be  the 
charity  of  your  hands,  of  your  heart,  because  it  is  yours, 
and  blessed,  too,  be  you  yourself,  a  hundred  thousand 
times!  [Passionately.]  You  are  my  life,  my  soul!  The 
only  reason  for  my  existence! 

Mariana.     [Greatly  surprised.]     John! 

John.    Yes,   the   only   one.     Didn't  you  know?    The 


/ 


POOR  JOHN  131 

only  one!  But  of  course  you  did.  Say  yes,  you  did,  my 
own! 

Mariana.     No,  John,  no. 

John.     Yes,  Mariana. 

Mariana.     But,  then — 

John.  Yes,  I  love  you,  I  adore  you,  I  am  mad  over 
you,  head  over  heels  in  love  with  you,  lost  irretriev- 
ably! 

Mariana.     Don't  say  that! 

John.     I  have  loved  you  all  my  life. 

Mariana.     No,  no! 

John.     Didn't  you  know  it? 

Mariana.     I  don't  want  to  know  it. 

John.     Why  not? 

Mariana.  Because  it  is  ridiculous — no,  not  exactly 
ridiculous,  but  it  is  a  pity;  I  am  awfully  sorry. 

John.     Do  you  mean  that  you  do  not  love  me? 

Mariana.  [Somewhat  more  composed.^  No.  Forgive 
me,  John.  I  do  love  you.  I  love  you  very  much,  very,  very 
much  more  than  I  love  my  father,  more  than  I  do  my  grand- 
mothers, but  then — I  don't  love  you. 

John.     Mariana! 

Mariana.  I  love  you  more  than  anybody  else  in  the 
world,  but  not  like  that — not  like  that.  [She  begins  to 
cry.] 

John.  Don't  cry;  you  will  break  my  heart.  Do — do 
you  love  someone  else? 

Mariana.  No,  nobody.  Honestly,  I  don't  love  any- 
body. 

John.     Then — 

Mariana.  But  I  shall  some  day — I  am  going  to  love 
somebody. 

John.    Whom? 

Mariana.  I  don't  know.  Whoever  it  is,  somebody — 
not  anybody,  somebody. 

John.     But  why  not  me,  Mariana? 

Mariana.     Because  I  can't.     I  tell  you,  because  I  love 


\ 


132  POOR  JOHN 

you  so.     I  don't  want  you  to  say  that  I  have  deceived  you. 

John.    You  must  have  a  very  poor  opinion  of  me. 

Mariana.  A  poor  opinion  of  you?  You  are  the  best 
man  in  the  world. 

John.     Must  you  say  that,  too? 

Mariana.     It  is  true. 

John.     It  only  makes  it  worse. 

Mariana.  John,  John!  Lift  up  your  head.  Look  at 
me,  John! 

John.     Is  it  possible?     Can  it  be? 

Mariana.     Why,  did  you  think  that  I — 

John.  I  don't  know.  When  I  thought  of  it,  it  did 
seem  incredible,  with  this  miserable  luck  of  mine,  but  I 
felt  that  you  were  so  close  to  me,  that  you  were  so  entirely 
my  own — or  that  I  was  yours,  I  don't  know  which — and 
you  were  so  good  to  me,  so  kind,  so  much  the  woman! 
All  the  happiness  I  have  ever  known  in  my  life  until  now, 
has  sprung  from  you — it  may  have  been  only  a 
little,  now  and  then,  in  small  things,  trifles,  help,  advice. 
It  was  presumptuous  of  me,  Mariana,  but  I  am 
so  accustomed  to  relying  upon  you,  that  I  imagined  that 
the  treasure  was  all  mine.  Besides,  I  love  you  so — I  mean 
I  need  you  so.  Why  should  you  not  be  all  goodness, 
Mariana,  and  take  me  like  a  little  child  into  your  life,  like 
a  toy  that  you  play  with,  or  a  dog  of  which  you  are  fond? 
But  let  me  be  yours,  all  yours,  because  I  love  you!  If 
you  could  love  me  only  a  little,  I  should  be  satisfied. 

Mariana.  A  little  is  not  enough.  To  be  husband  and 
wife,  if  that  is  what  you  mean,  we  should  have  to  love 
each  other  a  great  deal  and  in  a  different  way. 

John.     How? 

Mariana.  I  love  you  tremendously,  you  and  every- 
thing that  is  yours,  because  it  is  yours — your  mother,  your 
house,  yes,  and  your  father,  or,  because — well,  I  would  give 
my  life  to  help  you.  If  anybody  said  anything  against 
you,  I  should  knock  him  down.  To  save  your  family, 
I  would  starve.     Even  your  name,  your  title  which  will 


POOR  JOHN  133 

be  yours  very  soon,  seem  to  me  so  noble,  so  dignified — 
I  don't  know  how  to  explain  it,  but  I  just  don't  want 
to  marry  you,  because — because — you  must  not  be  angry, 
but  I  think  I  am  cleverer  than  you  are. 

John.     You  are  a  great  deal  cleverer  than  I. 

Mariana.  No,  1  don't  mean  exactly  cleverer;  I  am 
quicker  than  you  are. 

John.  No,  you  are  cleverer  and  you  are  braver  than 
I.  Besides  you  are  good  and  beautiful.  I  am  nothing  but 
a  poor  devil,  an  unlucky  fellow! 

Mariana.  No,  you  are  not.  You  know  a  great  deal 
more  than  I  do.  You  know  all  about  books  and  all  about 
art.  You  are  a  handsomer  man  than  I  am  a  woman.  I 
am  crude.  My  hands  are  red  and  yours  are  white.  Then, 
you  are  so  fastidious,  you  have  such  good  taste.  If  it 
had  not  been  for  you,  I  am  sure  that  I  should  always 
have  dressed  like  a  gay  masquerader.  You  amount  to  a 
great  deal  more  than  I  do;  there  is  more  to  you. 

John.  Yet,  although  there  is  so  much  to  me,  I  am 
not  your  ideal. 

Mariana.  No,  I  have  no  ideal.  Don't  think  that  I 
am  so  romantic. 

John.  Well,  enough  of  this  talk!  What  sort  of  man 
do  you  want  for  a  husband? 

Mariana.  I  don't  know.  Wait  and  see.  You  alwaj^ 
lean  on  me  when  we  walk  out  into  the  country — I  always 
have  to  help  you  up  the  hills.  Well,  the  man  who  is  my 
husband  will  run  up  the  hills  and  carry  me  along  in  his 
arms. 

John.     I  will  do  my  best. 

Mariana.     Hills  are  symbolic  of  so  many  things! 

John.    Ah,  me! 

Mariana.  I  simply  cannot  bear  to  make  you  unhappy 
— but  I  suppose  I  must;  there  is  no  escape.  I  should  never 
dream  of  asking  you  to  carry  me;  I  feel  that  I  was  born 
to  take  care  of  you.  When  your  head  aches,  I  always 
wish  it  was  mine.     You  are  older  than  I  am,  but  it  seems 


134  POOR  JOHN 

to  me  that  you  must  be  a  great  deal  younger;  I  feel  as  if 
you  were  my  child. 

John.     Don't  say  that. 

Mariana.    Why  not? 

John.  Because  all  this  love  of  yours,  which  you  say 
you  feel,  which  is  so  great,  so  deep,  is  nothing  but  contempt 
— loathing  and  contempt. 

Mariana.    No,  it  is  not! 

John.     Or  pity,  I  don't  know  which  is  worse. 
[J  brief  pause. ^ 

Mariana.    Oh,  but  I  am  so  angry! 

John.    Why? 

Mariana.  To  think  that  another  woman  hasn't  done 
this  to  you,  and  then  I  could  have  consoled  you  afterward! 

John.  No,  Mariana,  if  another  woman  had  made  me 
suffer  as  you  have  because  I  loved  her  as  I  love  you,  even  you 
could  not  have  consoled  me. 

Mariana.  It  would  have  been  the  first  time.  [Draw- 
ing  nearer  to  him.]  Don't  be  foolish,  John;  think 
it  over,  and  control  yourself.  You  don't  love  me  as  much 
as  you  think  you  do.  If  you  had  really  been  mad  oveiJ 
me,  you  would  have  told  me  so  before;  you  could  never 
have  remained  silent  through  all  these  years. 

John.     [Tenderly.]     Don't  talk  nonsense. 

Mariana.  Only  you  didn't  know  where  else  to  turn 
to  find  one  misfortune  more.  Now  you  can  say  that  you 
have  been  unlucky  even  in  love.  How  could  two  people 
love  each  other  who  have  lived  together  all  their  lives 
like  brother  and  sister?  Love  must  come  from  outside,  all 
of  a  sudden,  from  somewhere  else — what  is  the  matter? 
Don't  you  feel  well?  Are  you  ill?  John,  for  Heaven's 
sake,  don't  take  it  like  this!  I'll  have  to  say  yes,  if  you 
do,  out  of  pity,  and  then  both  of  us  will  be  unhappy — ^yes, 
both !     John !     John ! 

John.  [Rising.]  Never  mind.  It  is  over  now.  You 
are  right,  your  children  ought  not  to  carry  the  poison  of 


POOR  JOHN  135 

a  degenerate  blood  in  their  veins,  they  must  not  be  born 
to  the  curse  of  a  decaying,  a  contaminated  race.  You 
splendid  woman,  you  are  right  to  refuse  a  hand  that  is 
bloodless  and  cold. 

MARii4NA.  How  can  you  talk  like  that? 
John.  Enough!  Leave  me — yes,  I  mean  it.  Then, 
you  can  come  back.  Leave  me  alone  a  moment,  until  I 
can  collect  myself,  until  I  can  persuade  myself  that  today  is 
to  be  again  like  yesterday — that  nothing  has  taken  place  be- 
tween us. 

[She  retires  slovj'ly,  looking  back  at  him  as  she  goes. 
When    she    reaches   the    top    of    the   steps,   she    pauses, 

hesitating,  before  entering  the   house.^ 
Mariana.     I  am  so  sorry !     Poor  John !     [Stamping  hef 
foot.]     But  it  is  not  my  fault.     What  a  pity! 

[She  disappears  into  the  house.  John  remains  alone, 
seated,  attempting  to  compose  himself.  A  bell  rings 
at  the  garden  gate,  but  no  one  answers  it.  After  a 
moment,  it  rings  again.  Presently,  Antonio  pushes 
the  gate  open  and  advances  into  the  garden.  He  looks 
about,  but  discovers  no  one.] 
Antonio.  Goodness  gracious!  The  house  must  be  en- 
chanted. 

[Falling  back  a  little,  better  to  look  up  at  the  faqade, 
he  collides  with  the  chair  which  is  occupied  by  JoHN. 
John  turns  sharply  in  great  annoyance.] 
John.     Eh?    What  is  this? 

Antonio.     I  beg  your  pardon.     [Recognizing  John.] 
John! 

John.     [Staring    at    him    for   a    moment    in    return.] 
Antonio ! 
Antonio.    The  very  man! 
John.     What  are  you  doing  here? 
Antonio.     Come,  come!     Embrace  me! 
John.     But  where  did  you  drop  from? 
Antonio.     From  your  house.    Where  did  you  think? 


136  POOR  JOHN 

John.  From  my  house?  I  thought  you  were  in 
America. 

Antonio.  So  I  was,  but  you  know  a  man  can  return 
from  America — although  it  seems  incredible. 

John.  But  what  are  you  doing  here?  Have  you  lost 
anything? 

Antonio.  Nothing  to  speak  of,  my  son;  my  heart,  that 
is  all.  And  I  have  a  presentiment  that  if  I  can  find  it 
here,  I  shall  encounter  eternal  happiness  as  well.  I  stopped 
off  to  have  a  look  at  you  by  the  way — pardon  my  insistence 
on  my  own  affairs — I  thought,  perhaps,  you  might  introduce 
me;  I  did  not  wish  to  enter  paradise  unannounced. 
Your  friend  is  charming,  my  boy!  And  charming  does  not 
express  it.  She  is  beautiful,  she  is  glorious,  she  is  ir- 
resistable,  she  is  unique!  One  woman  among  ten  thousand! 
By  the  way,   I  don't  suppose  you  happen  to  be  engaged? 

John.  Engaged?  What  makes  you  say  that?  Ex- 
plain yourself.     Don't  talk  like  an  ass. 

Antonio.  Are  you  always  so  good  natured  when  you 
wake  up  from  a  nap? 

John.    A  nap? 

Antonio.  You  were  asleep  when  I  came  in — now  don't 
deny  it.  I  rang  the  bell,  I  can't  say  how  often.  Then  I 
called,  I  don't  know  how  many  times.     Lucky  devil! 

John.    I? 

Antonio.  Yes,  to  be  able  to  sleep  in  immediate  prox- 
imity to  this  marvel  of  the  ages.  But  you  are  used  to  it 
— it  is  force  of   habit.     O,   Mariana,    Mariana! 

John.     What  business  have  you  with  Mariana? 

Antonio.  None,  unfortunately,  up  to  the  present. 
I  am  mad  over  her. 

John.     Absurd! 

Antonio.  Do  you  suppose  that  all  men  are  like  you — 
incombustible?  I  saw  her  yesterday  for  the  first  time — 
now  don't  you  laugh — and  I  cannot  live  another  hour  without 
her.  How  do  you  manage  not  to  fall  in  love?  You 
have  lived  near  her  all  your  life. 


POOR  JOHN  137 

John.  Well,  perhaps  that  may  be  the  reason.  How 
can  two  people  love  each  other  who  have  lived  together 
like  brother  and  sister  ever  since  they  were  children? 
Love  must  come  from  the  outside,  all  of  a  sudden,  from 
somewhere  else — 

Antonio.  Like  lightning!  That's  a  fact.  That  is  the 
way  it  was  with  me.  Didn't  you  notice  when  I  came  in 
that  I  had  been  struck  by  it?  How  can  a  man  fall  in  love, 
my  boy,  in  twenty-four  hours — no,  in  less — in  a  night, 
lying  awake,  dreaming  of  her?  She  hasn't  another  sweet- 
heart, has  she  ?     Pardon  the  question ;  it  interests  me   .    .    . 

John.  No,  none,  whatever,  but  she  is  going  to  have 
one. 

Antonio.    Who  ? 

John.  [With  exceeding  ill  grace,  annoyed.^  How  do 
I  know? — somebody,  anybody. 

Antonio.  Is  that  so?  You  seem  to  be  pretty  well  ac- 
quainted, you  are  great  friends,  of  course.  What  sort  of 
person — you  don't  mind  my  asking  these  questions  in  con- 
fidence— what  sort  of  person  does  she  seem  to  prefer? 
If  it  is  not  too  much  trouble — 

John.  No  indeed!  Don't  consider  me,  anyhow.  What 
do  you  care? 

Antonio.     I  knew  you  were  a  friend  of  mine. 

John.     As  you  say. 

Antonio.  This  ideal  which  she  has  formed  in  her  m'nd 
- — does  it  happen  to  present  any  resemblance  to  me?  For 
if  it  does — 

John.  Her  ideal?  Could  you  run  up  a  hill  with  her 
in  your  arms? 

Antonio.  And  jump  over  the  moon  with  her  in  them, 
and  then  back  again,  and  run  up  to  the  top  a  second  time 
without  stopping  to  take  breath! 

John.  Well,  that  is  just  her  ideal  of  a  man.  Good- 
bye and  good  luck! 

\_He  goes  out.'\ 

Antonio.    John!    Where    are   you   going?    One   ma- 


I 


■BSS&SSSSSSiSSSBSB 


138 


POOR  JOHN 


merit!  Wait!  What  shall  I  do  without  you?  I  must  be 
introduced.  [The  garden  gate  slams,  causing  the  bell  to 
ring  violently. '\  What  is  the  matter  with  him?  Is  it  pos- 
sible that  they  can  be  engaged?  No,  or  he  would  have 
said  so,  or  else  have  knocked  me  over  the  head.  I  won- 
der— 

[Mariana  appears  at  the  top  of  the  steps.'\ 

Mariana.    John,  John!    Where  are  you? 

Antonio.     He  is  not  here,  seiiorita,  but  I  am — if  I  can 
be  of  service — 

Mariana.     Oh!     [She  comes  down  the  steps.'\     How 
do  you  do? 

Antonio. 
deed! 

Mariana 

Antonio. 


Pleasant  morning,  isn't  it?     Fine!     Yes,  in- 


Do  you  wish  anything? 
Nothing.     [Continuing,  as  she  makes  a  ges- 
ture of  surprise.^     Nothing,  now  that  I  have  seen  you. 
Mariana.     [Laughing.']     Oh ! 

Don't  you  believe  me? 
Naturally. 

But  how  can  you  take  it  so  calmly? 
Surely  you  did  not  expect  me  to  be  greatly 


Antonio. 
Mariana. 
Antonio. 
Mariana. 
surprised  ? 
Antonio. 
Mariana. 
Antonio. 
Mariana. 
Antonio. 
Mariana. 


Of  course  not;  you  are  accustomed  to  it. 
To  what? 

To  admiration  which  is  fervent. 
Nobody  has  ever  killed  himself  for  my  sake. 
You  do  not  know  me. 

I  remember — aren't  you  the  man  who  passed 
on  horseback  yesterday  afternoon,  as  I  was  standing  at  my 
cousin's  gate? 

Antonio.     Si,  senora,  I  am  the  man. 
Mariana.    Were  you  on  the  beach  afterward  when  we 
finished  playing  tennis? 

Antonio.  And  after  that  I  was  on  the  float  when  you 
got  out  of  the  boat.  Yes,  indeed,  I  was  there — at  your 
service. 


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POOR  JOHN 


139 


Mariana.    You  are  a  stranger  here? 

Antonio.     No,  I  was  born  here. 

Mariana.     Then  why  did  you  stop  at  the  gate  to  ask  me 
the  way? 

Antonio.     I  was  anxious  to  learn  whether  your  voice 
was  as  sweet  as  your  face. 

Mariana.     I  never  saw  you  until  yesterday. 

Antonio.     I  have  been  five  years  in  America,  and  home 
again  only  two  weeks. 

Mariana.    Where   did   you   keep  yourself   before   you 
went  to  America? 

Antonio.     You  have  often  seen  me,  although,  perhaps, 
you  may  not  remember  it. 

Mariana.     I  wonder — yes.     No!    What  is  your  name? 
Antonio  Losada. 
Are     vou    Antonio     Losada?    With     that 


Antonio. 

Mariana 
moustache  ? 

Antonio. 
try  for  hair. 

Mariana, 
John? 

Antonio.  Of  course!  We  went  to  school  together 
with  the  Escolapios,  and  we  were  suspended  together  at 
the  University — that  is,  the  first  time. 

Mariana. 

Antonio. 

Mariana. 

Antonio. 
I  do. 

Mariana. 

Antonio. 

Mariana. 

Antonio. 

Mariana. 

Antonio. 


you 

Yes,  indeed.     America  is  a  wonderful  coun- 
\^Laughing.'\     But  then,  of  course,  you  know 


I  remember.     In  Roman  Law? 
No,  Canon  Law. 

But  that  wasn't  the  first  time. 
Right    again!     You    remember    better    than 


Poor  John! 
Poor  John! 

What  makes  you  say  "Poor  John"? 
You  said  it  first. 
I  was  not  thinking.     Poor  John! 
Perhaps  if  you  could  forget  him  a  little,  and 
sympathize  with  me — 

Mariana.     Oh!    Are  you  in  troublg? 


140  POOR  JOHN 

Antonio.    Terrible  trouble. 

Mariana.  Nobody  would  ever  suspect  it  from  your 
face. 

Antonio.  No;  it  is  more  deeply  seated ;  there  is  nothing 
the  matter  with  my  face. 

Mariana.     I  hope  it  is  not  your  heart. 

Antonio.     It  might  be,  for  all  you  know. 

Mariana.     Has  it  pained  you  very  long? 

Antonio.     Since  the  beginning  of  the  world. 

Mariana.     That  is  a  very  long  time. 

Antonio.  And  not  one  day  less.  When  God  made 
ap  his  mind  to  create  the  universe,  he  jotted  down  in  his 
note-book  that  I  was  predestined,  after  centuries  and  cen- 
luries  had  passed,  to  suffer  torment  because  of  two  beauti- 
ful black  eyes  which  I  am  gazing  into  now. 

Mariana.     Very  likely.     Can't  you  ever  be  serious? 

Antonio.     Very.     Will  you  marry  me? 

Mariana,  Ave  Maria!  God  bless  us!  You  frighten 
me  out  of  my  wits. 

Antonio.    Am  I  as  unattractive  as  that? 

Mariana.  [Looking  at  him.]  No,  I  do  not  object  to 
j'our  looks. 

Antonio.    Thanks. 

Mariana.  Thanks  for  what?  Besides,  looks  are  of 
no  importance  anyway. 

Antonio.  Certainly  not.  Would  you  mind  telling  me 
what  is  of  importance? 

Mariana.     Have  you  a  cough? 

Antonio.     No,  I  never  cough. 

Mariana.     Are  you  subject  to  headaches? 

Antonio.  Yes,  I  had  a  headache  once  when  I  was  a  boy. 
Another  boy  cracked  me  on  the  head  with  a  stone. 

Mariana.     Oh,  then  you  must  be  quarrelsome? 

Antonio.  I  am;  fairly  so — when  I  can't  get  what  I 
want. 

Mariana.     WTiat  you  want,  or  what  you  ought  to  get? 

Antonio.    Will  you  tell  me  the  difference? 


POOR  JOHN 


141 


Mariana. 

Antonio. 
Mariana. 
Antonio. 
in  your  face. 
Mariana. 
Antonio. 
Mariana. 
Antonio. 


Don't  you  know? 
No.     Neither  do  you. 

I? 
You  always  get  what  you  want;  I  can  see  it 


Then  you  must  be  clairvoyant. 
Love  sees  at  a  distance;  it  penetrates. 
Not  at  all.     Love  is  blind. 
That  was  in  the  old  days;  but  now  it  has 
been  operated  upon,  and  we  have  removed  the  cataracts. 
Mariana.     Only  imagine  the  sights  that  that  poor  boy 
must  see ! 

Antonio.     Some  of  them  very  nice,   no  doubt,   begin- 
ning with  you. 

Mariana.     But  where  will  he  leave  ofT? 
Antonio.    With  you,  too.     After  encircling  the  globe 
and  seeing  everything,  he  will  come  back  to  you. 
Mariana.     After  encircling  the  globe? 
Antonio.     What  do  you  say?     Shall  we  go  along? 
Mariana.     I  warn  you  that  he  would  find  me  an  ex- 
tremely disagreeable  traveling  companion. 
Antonio.     In  what  way? 

I  should  expect  too  much  of  him. 
Expect  it  of  me,  then,  and  you  will  not  be  dis- 


Mariana. 
Antonio. 
appointed. 
Mariana. 
Antonio. 
Mariana. 


Never? 
Never. 
Suppose  that  what  I  have  set  my  heart  on 


proves  difficult  to  get? 

Antonio.     I  will  get  it. 

Mariana.     But  suppose  it  does  not  exist? 

Antonio.     I  will  invent  it. 

Mariana.  Suppose  that  it  costs  you  your  life  to  obtain 
it? 

Antonio.  I  shall  give  up  my  life,  and  then  come  straight 
back  to  life  again,  for  you  may  be  perfectly  certain  that 
I  shall  never  leave  the  world  as  long  as  it  contains  you. 


142  POOR  JOHN 

Mariana.     Not  even  if  I  marry  some  one  else? 

Antonio.    John  ? 

Mariana.  No,  I  shall  never  marry  John,  but  the  man 
who  marries  me  must  take  care  of  him  and  protect  him, 
for  I  shall  always  have  him  around.  You  are  not  laughing 
at  John? 

Antonio.     By  no  means. 

Mariana.  Because  it  is  not  safe  to  laugh  at  him. 
Wherever  I  go,  he  is  coming  along.  Whatever  I  have,  I 
mean  to  share  it  with  him;  my  house  shall  be  his  house, 
and  whenever  he  calls,  I  shall  rush  to  his  side. 

Antonio.    Yet  the  man  complains  of  his  fate! 

Mariana.  He  is  a  privileged  person.  Besides,  I  don't 
want  you  to  be  jealous.  You  must  not  be  ridiculous.  John 
is  John. 

Antonio.  From  this  hour  forth  evermore.  Anything 
else? 

Mariana.     If  I  marry — 

Antonio.     If  you  marry! 

Mariana.     I  must  have  ten  children,  all  boys. 

Antonio.     [Js  a  matter  of  course. '\     Anything  else? 

Mariana.     I  thought  perhaps  that  might  be  enough. 

Antonio.  Why  not  add  a  couple  of  girls  while  we  are 
about  it,  if  it  is  not  inconvenient,  so  that  the  breed  of 
valiant  women  shall  not  become  extinct? 

Mariana.    Are  you  laughing  at  me? 

Antonio.  No,  only  I  think  we  had  better  hurry.  We 
are  wasting  valuable  time. 

Mariana.     I   don't   know.     What   are  you  doing? 

Antonio.  Loving  you  madly,  passionately.  I  have 
been  doing  nothing  else  since  yesterday,  at  eight  o'clock  in 
the  morning. 

Mariana.     I  mean,  what  are  you  doing  for  a  living? 

Antonio.  Why  not  do  anything  that  happens  along? 
Don't  you  think  that  with  courage  and  a  little  luck,  pretty 
nearly  anything  would  do? 


POOR  JOHN  143 

Mariana.    Yes,  but — 

Antonio.  In  America,  my  dear,  I  did  a  little  of  every- 
thing; I  grew  tobacco,  I  canned  meat,  I  raised  cane. 

Mariana.  How  perfectly  dreadful!  I  am  sure  you 
must  have  thrown  your  money  away. 

Antonio.  Dreadful?  It  was  fine!  I  made  lots  of 
it. 

Mariana.      You  must  be  very  rich,  then. 

Antonio.  No,  I  enjoyed  life  as  I  went  along.  I  shall 
be  rich,  however,  when  I  marry  you. 

Mariana.  Do  you  plan  to  turn  miser  at  my  expense, 
when  it  is  your  duty  to  support  me? 

Antonio.  Not  miser,  precisely;  although  we  shall 
need  to  be  economical  if  we  are  to  provide  for  the  boys. 

Mariana.  [Lauffhinff.li  When  do  you  expect  to  re- 
turn to  America? 

Antonio.  I  expect  to  return — when,  I  don't  know. 
As  I  shall  not  sail  without  you,  perhaps  I  shall  remain 
ashore. 

Mariana.  I  hope  you  don't  think  that  I  am  afraid  of 
the  water? 

Antonio.  You?  No,  indeed!  But  John  might  be 
sea-sick. 

Mariana.  [Lauffhinff.l  You  are  a  real  man.  [Hold- 
ing  out  h^r  h'and.^ 

Antonio.     [Kissing  it.'\     And  you  are  an  angel! 

Mariana.     So  you  think  now. 

Antonio.     Yes  ...  I'll  see  you  later. 
[Shouts  and  confusion  outside.] 

Voices.     No,  no!     Here — not  that  way! 

Mariana.    What  has  happened? 

[Mama  Ines  and  Mama  Pepa  rush  in  from  the 
gallery,  greatly  agitated,  followed  by  two  servants. 
Don  Carlos  and  a  grourp  of  factory  hands  enter  simul- 
taneously at  the  garden  gate.  They  carry  John  in 
their  arms,    covering   him    up   with   a   poncho   which 


144  POOR  JOHN 

conceals  him  from  view  almost  completely.     They  lay  him 

down  upon  the  chaise  longue,  where  Mariana  and  the 

other   women    surround    him.     Meanwhile    the    dialogue 

proceeds  with  great  rapidity,  almost  all  speaking  at  the 

same  time.'\ 

Don  Carlos.    This  way!    This  way!    In  here.  .  .  . 

Mama  Ines.    John! 

Mama  Pepa.     John! 

Mariana.    Why,  John! 

Mama  Ines.     God  bless  us!     An  accident? 

Mariana.  John!  John!  Can't  you  speak?  Look  at 
me!  What  have  you  done?  What  is  the  matte*?  Can't 
you  answer? 

Don  Carlos.  He  is  unconscious,  my  dear.  He  is  not 
able  to  talk. 

Mama  Ines.     Mercy  on  us!     A  terrible  calamity! 

Mama  Pepa.     He  was  a  fine  young  man. 

A  Maid.     Oh,  he  was  lovely! 

Second  Maid.     He  was  so  handsome! 

Don  Carlos.     Ladies,  he  is  not  dead  yet. 

Mama  Ines.     But  he  is  going  to  die. 

Mama  Pepa,  Nothing  of  the  sort,  unless  his  time  has 
come — which  may  be  now. 

First  Maid.     He  has  opened  his  eyes. 

Mama  Ines.     Quick!     Run  for  a  cup  of  hot  broth. 

Antonio.     I  should  suggest  a  nip  of  cognac. 

Mama  Ines     Give  him  a  warm  punch, 

Mariana.     [At  the  table.']     Yes,  strike  a  match. 

Mama  Pepa.  [To  one  of  the  maids.]  Bring  some 
rum. 

Mama  Ines.  But  how  did  it  happen?  Why  don't  you 
tell  us? 

First  Factory  Hand.  It  was  nothing  much.  He  was 
walking  up  along  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  he  toppled  over 
into  the  sea.     That's  all. 

Second  Factory  Hand.  He  didn't  fall,  I  tell  you;  I 
saw  him  jump. 


POOR  JOHN  145 

Mama  Pepa  and  Mama  Ines.  God  have  mercy  on  ouf 
souls! 

First  Factory  Hand.  I  tell  you  I  saw  him  topple  off 
the  edge  of  the  cliff. 

Second  Factory  Hand.  I  tell  you  I  saw  him  jump. 
How  could  he  fall  when  the  track  there  is  wide  enough  for 
a  team  ? 

First  Factory  Hand.     He  got  dizzy. 

Mariana.     Yes,  but  who  pulled  him  out  of  the  water? 

First  Factory  Hand.  Nobody,  because  he  fell  plop 
into  Little  John's  boat,  which  was  tied  up  there  below  the 
rock,  waiting  to  catch  lobsters. 

Mama  Pepa.     Praise  God  and  bless  His  Holy  Name  I 

Mama  Ines.  If  he  isn't  drowned,  then  what  on  earth 
is  the  matter  with  him? 

First  Factory  Hand.  He  fell  fifty  feet,  lady,  which 
is  plenty  to  give  a  man  a  bit  of  shock. 

First  Maid.     [Entering.]     The  punch! 

Mariana.  Give  it  to  me.  [She  goes  up  to  John  and 
forces  the  punch  into  his  mouth.]  Drink  thi»!  Here, 
more,  more.  Do  you  feel  very  badly?  [John  coughs.] 
He  coughs — naturally,  after  the  wetting. 

John.  [Faintly.]  No,  I  didn't  get  wet.  The  water 
splashed  into  the  boat ;  it  tipped  a  little  when  I  came  down, 
that  was  all.  I  am  all  right  now,  thanks;  don't  worry. 
Forgive  me — 

Mama  Ines.     You  did  give  us  a  nice  fright! 

Don  Carlos.  Everybody  pass  into  the  house  and  take 
something.     [To   Mama   Pepa.]     See  what  you  can  do. 

Mama  Pepa.     Come  with  me. 

First  Factory  Hand.  [To  John.]  All  right,  son. 
Glad  it  wasn't  any  worse. 

Second  Factory  Hand.     Better  luck  next  time.. 

[All  pass  into  the  house  except  Mariana,  Antonio 
and  John.] 

Mariana.  [In  a  low  voice.]  Did — did  you  really 
commit  suicide? 


146  POOR  JOHN 

John.    Yes,  really.     And  even  then  I  had  bad  luck. 

Mariana.  A  nice  way  to  celebrate  my  birthday,  mak- 
ing it  as  unpleasant  for  me  as  you  can! 

John.  I  am  sorry,  but  the  temptation  to  leave  this 
scurvy  w^orld  was  too  strong. 

Mariana.     Promise  never  to  do  it  again! 

John.     What  good  would  it  do  if  I  did  ? 

Antonio.  [Jdvancing  sympathetically  J]  Well,  well, 
man !     What  was  the  trouble  ? 

Mariana-.  Nothing.  He  was  walking  along  the  edge 
of  the  cliff,  and  grew  dizzy. 

John.     \^To  Antonio.]     What!    You  here  yet? 

Antonio.  Yes,  indeed !  No  sooner  were  you  out  of  the 
way,  than  she  appeared,  so  I — 

Mariana.     Exactly.     I  appeared,  so  he — 

John.     Say  no  more!     It  was  foreordained. 

Mariana.     Yes,  he  dropped  from  the  clouds,  as  it  were. 

John.  \^Forcing  a  smile.}  When — when  is  the  happy 
day? 

Antonio.    Whenever  she  fixes  the  date. 

Mariana.     Oh,  there  is  no  hurry. 

Antonio.     No  hurry? 

Mariana.    We  have  so  much  to  do  before  we  sail. 

John.     Sail? 

Mariana.  Yes,  Antonio  feels  that  we  must  return  to 
America. 

Antonio.     But  you  are  coming  along. 

John.    I  ? 

Antonio.  Yes.  You  are  to  be  godfather  to  the  first 
of  our  ten.     We  are  planning  to  christen  him  John. 

Mariana.     That  is  if,  as  we  hope — 

John.     No,  no,  never!     Impossible!  .  .  . 

Mariana.    What  makes  you  think  so? 

John.  Because  if  he  inherits  my  luck  with  my  name, 
the  poor  wretch  will  not  be  able  even  to  drown.  Besides, 
when  things  go  wrong  with  him,  I  don't  want  to  hear 
you  saying  forever:     "Poor  John!" 


POOR  JOHN  147 

Mariana.     No,   and  we  ought   not  to  say  it  to   you 
either.     [Moving  away  unconsciously.^     Poor  John! 
Antonio.    Poor  John ! 

Curtain 


MADAME  PEPITA 

COMEDY  IN  THREE  ACTS 

TEATRO  DE  LA  COMEDIA,  MADRID 
1912 

THE  PLAYHOUSE,  OXFORD 
1924 


TO  RICARDO  LEON 


CHARACTERS 

Madame  Pepita^  aged  38. 
Catalina,  aged  17. 
Galatea^  aged  2$ 
Carmen^  aged  28. 
Cristina,  aged  16. 
A  Sewing  Girl,  aged  20. 
Don  Guillermo,  aged  40c 
Alberto,  aged  22. 
Don  Luis,  aged  55. 
AuGUSTO,  aged  25. 
Andres,  aged  30, 


ACT  I 

Reception  salon  in  the  establishment  of  Madame  Pepita, 
a  fashionable  dressmaker.  The  room  is  elaborately  fitted 
out  with  gold  furniture,  upholstered  in  silk,  but  too  elabo- 
rate for  good  taste.  In  the  centre  and  at  the  right,  small 
tables  strewn  with  fashion  magazines,  colored  plates  of 
French  and  Viennese  models  and  samples  of  materials  such 
as  wholesale  houses  supply  to  dressmakers.  A  large  three 
panelled  mirror,  in  front  of  a  pier  glass  reaching  to  the 
floor,  points  to  the  fact  that,  on  busy  days,  the  salon  is 
pressed  into  service  as  a  fitting  room  also.  One  or  two 
smart  hats  hang  about  on  high  stands;  almost  in  the  centre 
of  the  stage  is  a  dress-form,  on  which  is  draped  an  elabo- 
rate evening  gown. 

At  the  rise  of  the  curtain.  Carmen^  one  of  Madame 
Pepita's  fitters,  is  kneeling  before  the  form,  pinning  a  de- 
sign of  flowers  and  foliage  on  the  gown.  She  pauses  every 
now  and  then  to  compare  the  result  with  the  fashion  plate 
which  she  takes  from  the  floor  at  her  side,  in  order  to 
examine  it  more  closely.  Cristina  stands  near  by,  hand- 
ing her  pins  from  a  small  box,  besides  flowers  and  buds 
from  a  large  carton  which  is  placed  on  a  chair. 

Carmen^  a  smart  looking  young  person  of  the  type 
employed  in  the  better  dressmaking  establishments  of  Ma- 
drid, wears  a  black  frock  set  off  with  a  small  white  apron. 
Her  shoes  are  neat  and  her  hair  and  general  appearance 
faultlessly  correct. 

Cristina,  an  apprentice,  still  in  short  skirts,  is  well- 
groomed  and  smart.  Both  girls  speak  with  the  easy  sophis- 
tication of  the  capital,  but  without  marked  vulgarity. 

Carmen.    Give  me  a  pin,  a  rose,  a  Bud  .  .  .  quick! 

153 


154  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  /] 

Cristina.    You're  not  in  any  hurry,  are  you? 
Carmen.    Well,    you'll   see   what  will   happen   if   the 
Snapdragon  appears  upon   the  scene,   and  this  dress   isn't 
finished. 

[Catalina^  a  girl  of  seventeen,  enters,  innocent  and 
attractive  in  appearance.  She  is  horribly  dressed,  and 
her  hair  is  done  frightfully.  Although  her  clothes 
are  well  cut  and  of  good  material,  her  skirt  is  on 
crooked  and  dips  down  on  one  side,  her  blouse  gapes 
where  it  fastens,  and  her  apron,  which  is  made  of  lace 
and  batiste  of  excellent  quality,  is  decorated  with  a 
huge  ink  spot.  Her  skirt  is  neither  long  nor  short, 
while  her  hair  hangs  loose,  except  for  a  large  bow  tied 
where  it  does  the  least  good.  In  moments  of  abstrac- 
tion, she  bites  her  nails  furiously.  In  one  hand  she 
carries  a  book.  Her  conversation  is  that  of  a  spoiled 
child  who  is  aware  of  her  importance  as  daughter  of 
the  head  of  the  establishment.^ 
Catalina.  [Entering,  overhearing  Carmen's  last 
words.}  See  here,  you  needn't  call  my  mother  the  Snap- 
dragon.    She  has  a  name,  like  everybody  else. 

Carmen.  Dearie,  you're  a  sweet  ghost — you  always 
appear  when  you're  not  wanted. 

Catalina.  Whether  I'm  wanted  or  not,  is  none  of  your 
business. 

Carmen.     Excuse  me,  dearie. 

Catalina.  [Walking  over  and  seating  herself  in  an 
armchair. '^  You  needn't  excuse  yourself,  but  be  a  little 
careful  what  you  say;  I'm  here.  [Cuddling  herself  down 
into  the  chair  like  a  cat.}  And  I'm  not  as  silly  as  you 
think. 

[She  opens  the  book  and  begins  to  read  to  herself, 
evidently  with  great  difficulty i\ 
Carmen.     [Under  her  breath.]     Little   Miss-Know-It- 
AU  is  not  as  silly  as  you  think. 

Catalina,      [Turning      quickly.}      See      here!     You 


[JCT  /]  MADAME  PEPITA  155 

needn't  call  me  Little-Miss-Know-It-All.     I've  got  a  name, 
like  everybody  else. 

Carmen.  What  you've  got  is  a  consumptive's  quick 
ear. 

Catalina.     [Much  offended.^     Consumptive  yourself. 

Cristina.  [Interveninff.]  Ah,  now,  don't  be  cross.  It 
was  only  a  joke. 

Catalina.  [Immediately  appeased.]  That's  all  right, 
but  be  a  little  careful  with  your  jokes.  My  name  is 
Catalina,  I'll  have  you  know,  and  my  mother  is  not  the 
Snapdragon,  she's  the  Senora,  the  head  of  this  establish- 
ment. 

Carmen.     [Maliciously*']     The   madam. 

Catalina.  No,  sir,  not  the  madam — Madame  Pepita, 
which  is  very  different.  [Insistiitff.]  Madame.  Pepita, 
Madame  Pepita! 

Carmen.  We  heard  you,  dearie.  [Maliciously.]  Well, 
then,  if  Madame  Pepita  comes  in  and  this  trimming  isn't 
finished,  [Emphasizing  every  word.]  the  head  of  this 
establishment  is  going  to  create  a  disturbance  that  will 
make  a  hurricane  seem  tame. 

Catalina.  And  quite  right,  too,  because  you're  lazy 
things,  all  of  you. 

Carmen.    Wise  talk,  eh,  from  the  pet  of  the  house? 

Cristina.     Why  don't  you  turn  in  and  help? 

Catalina.  [Scornfully.]  I?  You've  got  cheek. 
[Turning  her  back,  she  begins  to  read  again j  applying  her- 
self laboriously,  pronouncing  each  syllable  as  children  do 
when  they  learn.]  "The  hu-man  bod-y  con-sists  of  three 
parts:  head,  trunk,  and  ex-trem-i-ties,"  [Repeating, 
without  looking  at  the  book]  "The  human  body  consists 
of  three  .  .  ." 

[A  bell  rings  at  the  entrance,  which  is  at  the  head 
of  the  stairs.] 

Carmen.  [To  Cristina.]  Look  and  see  who  is  com- 
ing.    The  doorbell  rang. 


156  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  I] 

CrisTINA.  [Glancing  toward  the  door  upon  the  right.} 
It's  the  boy  from  the  silk  shop. 

[Alberto  appears  in  the  doorway.     He  is  a  youth 

of  twenty-two,  unusually  well-educated,  of  good  family, 

whom    reverses    have    obliged   to   seek    employment   as 

clerk  in  "La  Sultana,"  silk,  lace  and  haberdashery  shop. 

He   dresses  plainly   but   respectably,   and   displays   the 

excessive  timidity  of  a  person  who  feels  himself  above 

his  position.     He  is  delivering  a  number  of  large  boxes 

containing  laces."} 

Alberto.     [^Hesitating    before    he    enters.}     May    I? 

With  your  permission  ...  I  beg  your  pardon  .  .  .   [The 

two  girls  do  not  answer,  as  they  are  busy  laughing.}     Good 

morning.  .  .  . 

Catalina.  [Raising  her  eyes  from  her  book,  instantly 
attracted  by  the  young  man.  As  the  scene  progresses,  little 
by  little  her  attitude  alters  from  sympathy  to  admiration. 
The  actress  should  mark  the  transition  simply  and  ingenu- 
ously, as  the  girl's  innocence  does  not  permit  her  to  realize 
its  significance.}  Good  morning.  Did  you  wish  anything? 
Alberto.  [Advancing  a  few  steps,  smiling  timidly.} 
Here  are  the  laces  from  "La  Sultana,"  so  that  you  may 
select  what  is  required. 

Carmen.  Very  well,  you  may  leave  them  and  return  a 
little  later. 

Alberto.  [Timidly.}  But  .  .  .  pardon  me.  The  pro- 
prietor wishes  me  to  bring  back  what  you  do  not  desire. 
When  all  the  laces  are  here,  and  ladies  call  at  the  shop, 
naturally  we  have  nothing  to  show. 

Carmen.  Well,  madame  has  a  fitting  at  present;  she 
has  no  time  to  make  selections  now. 

Cristina.     The  idea!     You  wouldn't   refuse   to   oblige 
a  lady,  would  you,  just  because  your  employer  tells  you  to? 
Alberto.     No,  indeed!     I  shall  retire,  then,  with  your 
permission,  and  return  later. 

[Backing  awkwardly  toward  the  door,  in   his  em- 
barrassment he  collides  with  a  chair,  which,  in  falling, 


[ACT  I]  MADAME  PEPITA  157 

carries  with  it  a  table  loaded  with  fashion  plates, 
both  crashing  down  together.  Greatly  disconcerted, 
Alberto  attempts  to  gather  up  the  scattered  papers, 
becomes  entangled,  proceeds  to  extricate  himself,  finally 
almost  falling  in  his  turn.  The  two  girls  burst  out 
laughing,  while  Catalina  rushes  toward  him  with  a 
cry.] 
Catalina.  {Hurrying  to  Alberto.]  Oh!  Did  you 
hurt  yourself? 

Alberto.  [Smiling,  in  spite  of  his  confusion,  but  look- 
ing askance  at  the  two  girls,  who  are  still  laughing.^  No, 
senorita.     Thank  you  very  much. 

Catalina.  Won't  you  let  me  get  you  a  glass  of  cold 
water  ? 

Alberto.     Oh,  no,  senorita!     It  is  quite  unnecessary. 

[The  girls  continue  to  laugh.'\ 
Catalina.     [Turning  to  the  girls.^     I  don't  see  what 
you  are  laughing  at. 

Carmen.     Can't  we  laugh  if  we  feel  like  it? 
Catalina.     Not  when  there's  nothing  to  laugh   at. 
Alberto.     Never  mind,  senorita,   they  are  laughing  at 
me.     When  a  man  trips,  it  invariably  amuses  the  ladies. 
I  suppose  it  seems  only  natural. 

Cristina.     Yes,  we  can't  teach  you  anything. 
Catalina.     [To     Alberto,     confidentially.']     They're 
stupid  things,  both  of  them. 

Alberto.     [Gratefully. 1     You    are   an   angel,   senorita. 
Catalina.     [Drawing  away,  half  shyly,  half  surprised.] 
Am  I? 

[During  this  episode,  the  girls  have  returned  to  their 
task  of  trimming  the  gown.     Carmen,  kneeling  on  the 
floor,  leans  backward  better  to  sense   the   effect,  and 
presently   makes  a  gesture   of  dissatisfaction.] 
Carmen.     This  can't  be  right. 

Cristina.  I  don't  think  so,  either.  It's  too  broad; 
there's  too  much  of  it. 

Carmen.     [Rising  and  taking  the  sketch  in  her  hand.] 


158  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  7] 

Well,  it  is  exactly  like  the  drawing,  and  that  is  awfully 
smart.     I  don't  know  what  it  is. 

Alberto.  [Interrupting.']  Pardon  me — [Snatching  the 
sketch  from  Carmen,  who  looks  up,  astonished.]  The 
lines  of  this  model  were  designed  for  the  ideal  woman,  a 
woman  with  a  figure  built  on  Gothic  lines.  [His  self- 
assurance  now  offers  a  striking  contrast  to  his  former  em- 
barrassment.] 

All.    What? 

Alberto.  [Smiling,  looking  from  one  to  the  other,  as 
if  making  a  demonstration  in  mathematics.]  I  mean  to 
say  that  she  has  very  long  legs. 

Carmen.     Say,  now! 

Alberto.  I  am  sure  of  it.  [Estimating  the  height  of 
the  plate  with  his  eye,  and  measuring  it  off  with  one  finger, 
as  painters  do.]  One,  two,  three.  .  .  .  We  have  exactly 
eight  heads. 

Cristina.     Eight  heads? 

Alberto.  [Smiling  pleasantly.]  Yes,  senorita,  that  is, 
in  total  height;  and  the  lady  for  whom  you  are  making 
this  gown  must  be  only —  [Glancing  at  the  dress-form.] 
Let  me  see.  One  .  .  .  two  .  .  .  three  ...  we  may  give 
her  five  and  a  half.     [With  perfect  assurance.] 

Cristina.     Five  and  a  half?     Heads? 

Carmen.  [Sarcastically.]  Five  and  a  half  heads  ought 
to  seem  a  lot  to  you. 

Alberto.  [Intensely  serious.]  No,  not  at  all.  Five 
and  a  half  are  not  nearly  enough.  The  ideally  proportioned 
figure  has  a  total  height  of  seven  heads — that  is  the  Greek 
type  in  all  its  purity  and  elegance.  French  and  Viennese 
models  always  exaggerate  somewhat,  but  Spanish  women, 
particularly  here  in  Madrid,  are  rather  Romanesque  in  con- 
tour, like — like  you,  senorita.     [To  Cristina.] 

Carmen.     [Laughs.] 

Cristina.     [Offended.]     Like  me? 

Alberto.  Don't  be  offended.  I  mean  wide  and  thick. 
So,  when  we  attempt  to  adapt  the  ideal  lines  of  the  model 


[ACT  7]  MADAME  PEPITA  159 

to  the  shapes  which  we  actually  see,  the  result  is  ridiculous. 
[Waxinff  eloquent,  as  he  studies  the  garment.^  Three 
parallel  rows  of  trimming  on  a  short  skirt?  Horrible! 
And  the  pity  of  it  is  that  just  as  long  as  women  neglect 
to  study  the  divine  mysteries  of  line,  they  will  continue  to 
go  about  looking  as  if  their  worst  enemies  had  designed 
their  clothes.  It  breaks  a  man's  heart  to  go  out  for  a 
walk  and  meet  masterpieces  of  the  Creator  transformed 
into  monstrosities  by  the  sacrilegious,  criminal  hands  of 
tailors   and   dressmakers. 

Cristina.      [Laughs.] 

Carmen.  [Half  amused,  half  angry.l  What  was  that 
about  tailors  and  dressmakers? 

Alberto.  [Recollecting  himself,  his  customary  timidity 
returning  as  he  realizes  what  he  has  said.]  Please  excuse 
me.     I  wasn't  thinking  of  you. 

Catalina.  [Who  has  been  listening  in  openmouthed 
admiration.]  But  who  are  you?  How  do  you  know  so 
much? 

Alberto.  I  am  nobody,  senorita;  I  amount  to  nothing. 
Only  I  draw  a  little,  I  sketch,  and  I  hope  to  become  a 
painter,  some  day.  In  the  meantime,  I  am  working  in 
"La  Sultana,"  silk,  lace  and  haberdashery  shop.  I  shall  re- 
tire, now,  with  your  permission,   ladies.  .  .  . 

[Goes    out.     A    moment   of   astonished   silence   fol- 
lows.] 

Carmen.     [Laughing.]     What  do  you  think  of  that? 

Cristina.     He's  a  scream. 

Catalina.  [Earnestly.]  I  don't  see  what  makes  you 
call  him  a  scream.  I  think  he's  awfully  nice  and  attrac- 
tive. 

Carmen.  Ahem!  Attractive  and  everything  else.  So 
Don  Simplicity  has  turned  your  head,  has  he? 

Catalina,  [Almost  in  tears.]  I  don't  see  what  makes 
you  call  him  Don  Simplicity.  He's  got  a  name,  like  every- 
body else. 

Carmen.     But  we  don't  know  his  name. 


i6o  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  /] 

Cristina.     Yes,  we  do;  it's  Alberto. 

Catalina.  [To  herself.]  Alberto?  What  a  nice 
name!  [Madame  Pepita  is  heard  talking  outside.']  Oh, 
here  comes  mamma! 

Carmen.  [Resuming  work  precipitately.]  Good-bye 
my  wages!     [To  Cristina.]     Give  me  another  pin. 

Madame   Pepita.     [Outside.]     Yes,   yes!     I   tell  you, 


yes 


A  Sewing  Girl.     [Outside.]     But,  Madame — 

[Madame  Pepita  enters.    She  is  still  a  fine  look- 
ing woman.     Her  tailored  suit  is  strictly  in  the  mode, 
and    her   coiffure   arranged   with    extreme    care.     She 
carries    an    elaborately    trimmed   sleeve    in    one    hand, 
talking  and  gesticulating  immoderately  as  she  enters, 
evidently  in  great  annoyance.     At  the  same  time,  she 
is  careful  to  maintain  a  noticeable  affectation  of  refine- 
ment.    The  Sewing  Girl  follows  deferentially.] 
Madame  Pepita.     There  is  no  "but"  about  it.     I  tell 
you  the  sleeve  is  a  botch,   and  a  botch  it  is.     You'll  rip 
it  this  very  minute,  and  baste  if  over  again  and  say  noth- 
ing, and  if  that  doesn't  suit  you,  you  can  go.     The  idea  of 
a  little  monkey  like  you  presuming  to  differ  with  me  in 
a  matter  of  taste! 

Sewing  Girl.     But  I  didn't  say  anything. 
Madame   Pepita.     So   much    the   better!     Here,    take 
your   sleeve.     [Throws   it   at   the   girl,   who    catches    it.] 
The  thing's  a   nightmare — it's   about   as  chic  as  you   are. 
To  think  I  pay  this  girl  six  pesetas  a  week! 

Sewing  Girl.  [Between  her  teeth,  as  she  goes  out.] 
Any  one  who  stands  you  ought  to  be  paid  six  hundred. 

Catalina.  [Going  up  to  Madame  Pepita.]  Mamma, 
do  you  hear  what  she  says?  She  says  any  one  who  stands 
you  ought  to  be  paid  six  hundred. 

Madame  Pepita.     [Brusquely.]     Is  that  your  business? 

Catalina.     [Completely  cowed.]     Oh! 

Madame    Pepita.     [Approaching   Carmen  and   Cris- 


[ACT  I]  MADAME  PEPITA  i6i 

iina.l     What   are   you   doing?     Wasting   time — as  usual? 
Why  aren't  you  in  the  workroom? 

Carmen.     We  were  finishing  this  gown  for  exhibition. 

Madame  Fepita.  [Examining  the  model  through  her 
lorgnette,  which  is  attached  to  an  extravagantly  bejewelled 
chain.]     And  a  sweet  exhibition  it  is! 

Carmen.     Don't  you  like  it  ? 

Madame  Pepita.  It  might  do  for  the  patron  saint 
of  your  village,  which  is  in  the  back  country — way  back,  if 
one  is  to  judge  by  the  taste. 

Carmen.     I  was  born  in  Madrid,  the  same  as  you. 

Madame  Pepita.  Then,  my  dear,  your  taste  is  bad 
naturally. 

Carmen.  It's  an  exact  copy  of  the  model  as  you- ordered. 
Won't  you  look? 

[Hands  her  the  sketch.  Madame  Pepita  examines 
the  gown  and  the  model  alternately  through  her  lorg- 
nette.] 

Catalina.  [Breaking  in,  eagerly,  perfectly  sure  of  her- 
self.] But  the  model  was  designed  for  a  woman  built  on 
Gothic  lines. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Looking  at  her  daughter,  alarmed.] 
What's  that? 

Catalina.  [Positively.]  Of  course!  And  the  lady 
who  ordered  this  is  Romanesque. 

Madame  Pepita.     What  are  you  talking  about? 

Catalina.  Yes,  Romanesque.  She  has  only  seven 
heads,  and  to  be  true  to  type,  with  perfect  proportion,  you 
must  have.  .  .  .  [Stops  to  think.]  Oh,  a  great  many 
more — I  don't  know  just  how  many;  and  if  you  put  three 
rows  of  trimming  on  a  short  skirt,  why,  the  woman  who 
wears  it  will  go  around  looking  like  a  Greek  monstrosity 
whose  worst  enemy  has  made  her  clothes.  There!  Just 
see  if  I'm  not  right.      [Breaks  off  suddenly.] 

Madame  Pepita.  [Alarmed.]  Child,  have  you  a  tem- 
perature?   Come  here,  let  me  see. 


i62  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  I] 

Catalina.     No,  mamma! 

Carmen  and  Cristina.     [Lauffh.l 

Madame  Pepita.  {AngrilyJ]  What  are  you  laughing 
at? 

Cristina.     [Intimidated.']     Nothing,  Madame. 

Carmen.  We  just  heard  all  that  rigmarole  from  the 
boy  from  "La  Sultana." 

Madame  Pepita.  Has  the  boy  from  "La  Sultana"  been 
here? 

Carmen.    With  the  laces. 

Madame  Pepita.    The  same  boy? 

Carmen.     No,  another  one,  Madame. 

Madame  Pepita.  Did  you  tell  him  that  he  was  no 
good  and  that  the  proprietor  is  a  cheat  and  an  extortioner? 

Carmen.     [Smiling.]     No,  Madame. 

Madame  Pepita.  You  missed  a  fine  opportunity.  I'll 
tell  him  when  I  see  him. 

Catalina.     [Aroused.]     No,  don't  you  do  it,  mamma. 

Madame  Pepita.     [Brusquely.]     Is  that  your  business? 

Catalina.     [Moving  off,  suppressed.]     Oh! 

Carmen.  [Pointing  to  the  dress-form.]  What  shall 
we  do  with  this? 

Madame  Pepita.  Take  it  to  pieces  and  pin  it  together 
all  over  again.  But  not  here.  People  will  be  coming 
soon,  and  the  whole  place  is  a  mess.  Carry  it  into  the 
workroom — I'll  be  there  in  a  minute.  Get  out  of  my 
sight ! 

Carmen.  [With  her  tongue  in  her  cheek.]  Yes, 
Madame.  [Picking  up  the  form  with  Cristina's  help  and 
carrying  it  out,  muttering  between  her  teeth  as  she  does 
so.]     With  the  greatest  of  pleasure. 

Catalina.  [Approaching  her  mother.]  Mamma,  she 
says  "With  the  greatest  of  pleasure." 

Madame  Pepita.     [Brusquely.]     Is  that  your  business? 

Catalina.     [Intimidated.]     Oh  1 

Madame  Pepita.    What  are  you  doing  here?    Idling? 

Catalina.     No,  Mamma,  I  am  studying. 


[ACT  /]  MADAME  PEPITA  163 

Madame  P:epita.  Is  that  so?  Let  me  see  that  book. 
Is  it  a  novel? 

Catalina.  [^Protesting.']  No,  mamma,  it's  a  book  Don 
Guillermo  lent  me — don't  you  know?  The  gentleman  on 
the  floor  above.  It  is,  really — if  you  want  to  see  it.  [Giv- 
ing her  the  book.] 

Madame  Pepita.  [Turning  the  pages.]  Heavens  and 
earth!     What's  this?     A  skeleton? 

Catalina.  [As  pleased  as  a  child.]  Yes,  mamma.  It's 
a  book  that  tells  how  many  bones  we  have  and  how  we 
are  made,  inside  and  out. 

Madame  Pepita.     Eh? 

Catalina.  [Continuing.]  And  what  everything  inside 
us  is  for.  [Reciting.]  "The  human  body  consists  of  three 
parts:  head,  trunk" — 

Madame  Pepita.  [Interrupting,  scandalized.]  Hush, 
hush!  That's  immoral!  Throw  the  book  away  this 
minute.  Such  things  are  only  for  men  to  know.  No  decent 
woman  has  any  occasion  to  study  her  insides. 

Catalina.  [Innocently.]  Oh,  yes,  mamma,  she  has. 
Don  Guillermo  says  that  women  are  just  the  ones  who 
ought  to  know,  so  that  when  they  grow  up  and  become 
mothers,  they  can  nurse  their  own  children,  as  God  in- 
tended. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Sincerely  shocked.]  The  man's  a 
satyr! 

Catalina.  [Innocently.]  Oh,  no,  mamma,  you  mustn't 
say  that!  He  writes  articles  for  the  papers,  and  he's  a 
member  of  the  Academy. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Softening,  as  if  by  magic]  A  mem- 
ber of  the  Academy!     Who  told  you  so? 

Catalina.  The  janitor's  wife.  She  saw  it  on  his  let- 
ters, and  it's  on  the  papers,  too,  that  come  to  him  from  the 
printers:  Don  Guillermo  de  Armendariz  y  Ochoa,  of  the 
Royal  Academy  of  Fine  Arts,  yes,  mamma.  Besides,  he's 
awfully  nice  and  awfully  sweet  to  me,  and  he  has  his 
rooms  all  stufFed   full  of  big  pieces  of  stone  and  statues 


i64  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  I] 

that  haven't  any  heads,  and  whenever  he  meets  me  on  the 
stairs  he  always  stops  to  talk  to  me,  and  he's  told  me  he'll 
lend  me  books  so  that  I  can  learn  something,  because  he 
thinks  it's  a  great  pity  that  I  am  such  a  big  girl  and  such 
an  ignoramus,  and  he  asked  why  didn't  you  send  me  to 
school  when  I  was  little,  and  I  told  him  that  you  didn't 
want  me  to  associate  with  common  children,  and  he  says 
that  it  is  better  to  be  common  than  to  be  ignorant,  and 
that's  true,   isn't  it,  mamma? 

Madame  Pepita.  [Abstracted,  impressed.^  A  mem- 
ber of  the  Academy  ? 

Catalina.  [Enthusiastically. "^  Yes,  mamma.  And  the 
other  day  he  had  his  picture  in  the  Nuevo  Mundo  with  the 
King  and  Queen. 

Madame  Pepita.    With  the  King? 

Catalina.  Yes,  mamma,  at  the  opening  of  the  picture 
exhibition;  he  was  there  to  receive  them  and  explain  every- 
thing, so  that  they  could  tell  which  were  the  good  pictures 
and  which  were  the  bad  ones.  You  can  see  them  all  here 
for  yourself.  [Producing  a  copy  of  the  Nuevo  Mundo, 
which  is  concealed  among  the  fashion  plates.^  He  has 
medals  all  over,  and  wears  a  sash. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Impressed.']  Probably  the  Order 
of  Carlos  III,  or  maybe  he's  Maria  Luisa.  [Mollified, 
gazing  at  the  photograph.]  How  attractive  a  man  does 
look  when  he's  decorated! 

[The  doorbell  rings,  after  which  Carmen's  voice 
is  heard  outside.] 

Carmen.  [Outside.]  Yes,  Seiior  Conde.  Will  the 
Conde  step  in?  I'll  tell  Madame.  [Appearing  in  the  door- 
way, and  discovering  Madame  Pepita.]  Oh,  here  is 
Madame  Pepita!  Madame,  the  Conde  de  la  Vega  de 
Lezo. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Suddenly  becoming  sweeter  than 
honey.]  Conde!  Come  in,  come  right  in.  [Giving  her 
daughter  a  hasty  push.]  Go  and  dress  yourself!  Don't 
stand  there  in  the  middle  of  the  room — you're  a  sight. 


[ACT  /]  MADAME  PEPITA  165 

Catalina.     [Cowed.^     Oh!     [Runs   outj   escaping    by 
one  door  as  the  Conde  enters  by  the  other.^ 

[Don  Luis  de  Lara,  Conde  de  la  Vega  de  Lezo, 
though  but  fifty-five,  is  in  appearance  much  older,  love, 
wine  and  other  excesses  having  undermined  his  health 
prematurely.  Nevertheless,  he  still  affects  the  airs 
and  graces  of  the  beau,  which  contrast  lamentably  with 
the  general  decay  of  his  person.  He  dresses  with  un- 
due pretense  to  fashion,  carrying  himself  gallantly 
in  the  grand  style,  although  his  gestures  and  poses  are 
marred  for  the  most  part  by  his  premature  senility. 
He  wabbles  and  totters  and  bends  forward  unex- 
pectedly, which  causes  him  the  keenest  annoyance. 
Kissing  the  girl  who,  opens  the  door  as  he  enters,  he 
appears  to  be  dispensing  a  favor.  The  girl  receives 
the  salute  with  ill-concealed  disgust,  wiping  her  face 
with  her  apron  as  soon  as  the  Conde's  back  is  turned. 
Then  she  goes  out.^ 
Don  Luis.     My  dearest  Pepita! 

Madame  Pepita.     I  was  afraid  the  Conde  had  forgotten 
us.     It  is  three  months  since  we  have  seen  you. 

Don  Luis.  Oh,  my  dear,  I  have  been  traveling — troubles 
and  worries  without  number!  I  have  not  been  well. 
Madame  Pepita.  The  Conde  has  been  ill? 
Don  Luis.  Yes,  mental  anguish,  moral  suffering;  that 
is  all.  Society  is  in  bad  case,  Pepita;  the  aristocracy  has 
degenerated.  Money  is  replacing  blue  blood  nowadays,  and 
it  is  prejudiced  against  the  nobility.  Poverty  devours  our 
vellum   riches.     We  are  nobodies. 

Madame  Pepita.     Oh,  don't  say  that,  Conde!     Money 
cannot  purchase  blue  blood. 

Don    Luis.     [Sighing.'\     No,    blue    blood    cannot    be 
bought,  nor  sold  either,  for  that  matter. 
Madame  Pepita.     Be  seated,   Conde. 
Don  Luis.     Ah,  Pepita,  who  would  believe  that  your 
dear,  departed  mother  had  lived  in  our  house,  that  she  had 
acted  as  maid  to  my  departed  wife? 


1 66  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  I] 

Madame  Pepita.     [Unduly  affected.'\     Your  poor  wife! 

Don  Luis.  Yes,  you  were  born  in  our  house,  brought  up 
under  the  protection  of  my  wing.  [Looking  about  the 
room.^  But,  today,  you  travel  the  road  to  riches,  while 
I.  .  .  . 

Madame  Pepita.  [Countering  promptly.']  Conde,  I 
have  troubles  of  my  own.     Believe  me! 

Don  Luis.  Come,  come,  don't  tell  me  you'll  ever  hang 
for  want  of  a  couple  of  thousand  pesetas. 

Madame  Pepita.  Conde,  what  put  that  idea  in  your 
head?  A  dressmaker  invests  her  entire  capital  in  clothes. 
These  gowns  cost  me  a  fortune,  and  just  as  soon  as  the 
style  changes,  nobody  will  look  at  them.  Then,  I  have  to 
pay  wages  to  no  end  of  girls,  and,  finally,  there  are  the 
customers.  They  grow  meaner  and  meaner  every  day. 
Even  the  actresses  and  the  demi-mondaines,  who  only  a 
little  while  ago  never  dreamed  of  questioning  the  price  of 
anything,  would  you  believe  it — nowadays  the  way  they 
scrutinize  their  bills  is  something  shameful.  They  know 
what  everything,  down  to  a  yard  of  satin,  costs.  Why, 
Conde,  I  had  a  lady  here  the  other  day,  the  wife  of  a  cabi- 
net minister — I'd  rather  not  mention  her  name — ^who  in- 
sisted upon  supplying  her  own  trimming  for  a  court  cos- 
tume. Fancy!  Trimming!  Tome!  [Greatly  outraged.] 
What  next,  I  wonder?  She  said  the  lace  was  antique,  it 
had  a  history.  I  thought  to  myself,  it's  antique  all  right. 
As  for  the  history,  there's  plenty  of  that  that's  not  so 
antique,  in  which  your  husband  figures  conspicuously. 

Don  Luis.     It  is  the  way  of  the  world,  Pepita. 

Madame  Pepita.  Dressmaking  is  not  what  it  used  to 
be,  Conde. 

Don  Luis.  Come,  come,  you  have  land  at  Escorial,  which 
is  money  assured.     Everybody  knows  you  have  property. 

Madame  Pepita.  What  good  is  a  little  property  when 
you  haven't  the  money  to  build? 

Don  Luis.  Your  daughter  will  be  one  of  the  finest 
matches  in  Spain. 


[ACT  /]  MADAME  PEPITA  167 

Madame  Pepita.  [Flattered.]  Oh,  Conde,  how  can 
you  say  that? 

Don  Luis.  I  have  a  soft  spot  in  my  heart  for  you, 
Pepita. 

Madame  Pepita.    Thank  you,  Conde. 

Don  Luis.  You  are  an  exceptional  woman,  enter- 
prising,  systematic,   who   has   exquisite   taste. 

[At    each    additional    flattery,    Madame    Pepita 
swells  with   pride,   blushing  with   excess  of  emotion.'] 
I    express    my    admiration    freely    whenever    I    can    find 
the  opportunity. 

Madame  Pepita.     I  am  more  than  grateful,  Conde. 

Don  Luis.     Today,  I  have  come  with  a  purpose. 

Madame   Pepita.     Conde! 

Don  Luis.  A  lady  will  arrive  shortly — naturally,  at 
my   suggestion — who  wishes   to   order   some   clothes. 

Madame  Pepita.     A  relative  of  the  Conde's? 

Don  Luis.  [With  a  superior  air.]  No,  she  is  not  of 
my  world,  socially.  Rather,  I  should  say,  of  the  artist 
class.  Her  name  is  Galatea — a  stage  name,  of  course. 
You  must  have  heard  of  her — something  quite  out  of  the 
ordinary — high  class  vaudeville,  don't  you  know?  Liv- 
ing pictures. 

Madame  Pepita.     Oh,  yes!     Of  course! 

Don  Luis.  Stunning  creature!  Exquisite!  She  has 
been  in  despair  in  Madrid  over  the  problem  of  clothes. 
She  can  find  nothing  appropriate.  [With  a  deprecatory 
gesture.]  Finally,  I  said  to  her:  Why  not  see  Madame 
Pepita? 

Madame   Pepita.     I   am  overwhelmed,   Conde! 

Don  Luis.  So  now  she  is  coming  to  you.  The  diffi- 
culty is — at  least,  I  assume  it  is — she  treats  me  like  a 
father,  or  even  more  so.  Although  she  is  fond  of  me,  there 
are  some  subjects  we  never  discuss.  However,  I  am  con- 
vinced that  somewhere,  in  the  background,  there  must  be 
somebody  who  pays  the  bills.  Tragic,  is  it  not?  But, 
obviously,  that  is  not  our  affair. 


i68  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  I] 

Madame  Peptia.  [Innocently.l  Certainly  not,  as  long 
as  they  are  paid. 

Don  Luis.  Naturally,  that  is  understood.  I  might  sug- 
gest that  in  fixing  the  price.  .  .  . 

Madame  I*epita.  [Quickly.'\  The  Conde  knows  that 
my  prices  are  not  exorbitant.  As  the  lady  is  a  friend  of 
his  .  .  . 

Don  Luis.  No,  no,  that  is  not  it  exactly.  Permit  your- 
self, for  once,  the  luxury  of  a  few  hundred  pesetas  more 
or  less.     Suppose  we  say  a  thousand  more. 

[Madame  Pepita  responds  with  a  gesture  of 
astonishment.^ 
Times  are  hard.  I  could  use  seven  hundred  and  fifty 
myself  .  .  .  [Quickly. '\  which  you  may  set  aside  for  me 
when  the  bill  is  paid,  unless  of  course,  you  care  to  advance 
them,  if  it  is  not  inconvenient. 

Madame   Pepita.     [Disconcerted.']     But,   Conde — 

Don  Luis.  [Affecting  depression,  pacing  up  and  down 
the  room.]  Sad,  Pepita,  is  it  not?  Democracy  has  re- 
duced us  to  this.  A  Conde  de  la  Vega  de  Lezo  accept- 
ing commissions  upon  clothes!  Think  of  it!  I  shed 
tears. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Capitulating.]  Don't  feel  too 
badly,  Conde.     If  there  is  anything  I  can  do.  .  .  . 

Don  Luis.  [Simulating  feeling.]  Thanks,  Pepita. 
[Embracing  her.]  I  accept  it  because  your  heart  is  pure 
gold.     But  it  demeans  me. 

Madame  Pepita.     Not  at  all,  Conde. 

[The  door  bell  rings.     Galatea's  voice  is  heard.] 

Galatea.     [Outside.]     Is  Madame  Pepita  in? 

Don  Luis.  Here  she  is;  I  recognize  her  voice.  [Trans- 
ported.] Ah,  her  voice!  [Advancing  to  the  door.]  This 
way,   Galatea.      [Hurrying  forward  to   offer  his  hand.] 

[Galatea,  a  woman  of  twenty-five,  displays  an  ex- 
tremely smart  street  costume,  somewhat  over-elaborate, 
but  nevertheless  in  good  taste.  Her  manners  and 
speech  are  vulgar,  contrasting  with  her  appearance,  and 


[ACT  /]  MADAME  PEPITA  169 

indicating  that  she  has  been  brought  up  among  the  least 
sensitive  of  the  lower  classes.^ 

Galatea.     [To  the  Conde.]     So  you're  here,  are  you? 

Don  Luis.  [Obsequious  and  infatuated,  losing  all  his 
grand  manner  at  once.^  Yes,  I  am  here,  as  you  see — 
whispering  naughty  things  about  you.  I  am  interested  in 
whatever  you  do. 

Galatea.  Well,  I'll  have  to  credit  you  one  for  getting 
up  early,  and  it  was  cold  this  morning,  too. 

Don  Luis.     I  am  capable  of  any  sacrifice  for  your  sake. 

Galatea.  The  sacrifice  will  come  later,  but  remember 
I  don't  count  asthmatic  attacks  any  sacrifice. 

Don  Luis.     Asthmatic  attacks?     A  great  joke! 

Galatea.  Is  this  the  Madame  Pepita  you  talk  so  much 
about  ? 

Madame  Pepita.     Yes,  indeed.     At  your  service. 

Galatea.  [As  affable  with  Madame  Pepita  as  she  is 
abrupt  with  the  Conde.]     I  am  charmed. 

Madame  Pepita.  The  pleasure  is  mine.  The  Conde 
informs  me  that  you  are  very  particular  in  the  matter  of 
clothes. 

Galatea.     Usually,  I  think  clothes  so  commonplace. 

Madame  Pepita.  I  am  sure  that  we  have  something 
which  will  appeal  to  your  tastes. 

Galatea.     I  suppose  you're  frightfully  expensive? 

Madame  Pepita.  Quality  is  always  expensive.  How- 
ever, I  do  not  believe  that  we  shall  differ  over  the  price. 

Don  Luis.  You  may  have  absolute  confidence  in  Pepita. 
Although  not  nobly  born,  she  holds  herself  high. 

[Whenever  the  Conde  speaks,  Galatea  stares  at 
him  contemptuously,  looking  him  over  from  head  to 
foot,  but  he  simulates   entire   obliviousness. "[ 

Madame  Pepita.  You  embarrass  me,  Conde.  [To 
Galatea.]  Have  you  any  ideas,  or  would  you  prefer  to 
look  over  some  of  our  models  first,  so  as  to  see  what  we 
have? 

Galatea.    Yes,  perhaps  you  might  show  me  something. 


I70  MADAME  PEPITA  {ACT  /] 

Madame  Pepita.  If  Madame  will  step  into  the  other 
room.  .  .  . 

Galatea.     I  am  anxious  to  see  your  display. 

Don  Luis.  [Unable  to  resist.']  Quite  right.  Step  this 
way! 

Galatea.  No,  trot  along;  you're  excused.  Dress- 
makers despise  nothing  so  much  as  men  who  hang  about 
fitting  rooms. 

Madame  Pepita.  Oh,  no  indeed !  If  it  is  any  pleasure 
to  the  Conde.  .  .  . 

Galatea.  Well,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  do.  That  settles 
it. 

Don  Luis.     {Visibly  disappointed.]     Always  clever  and 


coy 


Galatea.     Yes,  it's  the  way  I'm  made. 

Don  Luis.  I  must  be  ofF,  then.  I  have  business  of  my 
own  to  attend  to.  Does  your  motor  happen  to  be  at  the 
door,  by  any  chance? 

Galatea.     What  do  you  want  of  my  motor? 

Don  Luis.  [Smiling.]  Nothing  of  your  motor,  but  I 
should  like  permission  from  you  to  ride  in  it,  as  far  as  my 
house. 

Galatea.  [After  a  moment's  hesitation.]  Very  well, 
if  you  send  it  right  back.  Mind  that  you  don't  smoke 
and  get  my  cushions  all  smelling  of  tobacco,  because,  when 
I'm  alone,  I  don't  care  to  be  reminded  that  there  are  such 
things  as  men  in  the  world.  [Fanning  the  air  with  her 
handkerchief.]     Ouf! 

Don  Luis.  Au  revoir,  Pepita.  Good-bye.  By  the  way, 
attend  to  that  little  matter  as  soon  as  possible;  the  need 
is  urgent. 

Madame  Pepita.     I  shan't  forget,  Conde. 
[The  Conde  goes  out.] 

Galatea.  [As  he  disappears,  utterly  indifferent  as  to 
whether  he  overhears  or  not.]  Silly  ass!  Side-splitting, 
isn't  he?    And  he  thinks  he's  a  sport! 

Madame  Pepita.     [Alarmed,  fearing  the  Conde  may 


[JCT  7]  MADAME  PEPITA  171 

hear  J]     Oh,  but  the  Conde  is  so  distinguished!     He  is  just 
in  his  prime. 

Galatea.  Yes,  prime  for  a  mummy  in  a  museum. 
My  God,  I've  no  use  for  antiques,  not  even  when  they're 
gold  lined!  Men  oughtn't  to  be  allowed  after  they  are 
twenty.     These   hang-overs   disgust   me.     [Siffhs.^ 

[Madame  Pepita  lifts  the  curtain  at  the  door  lead- 
ing to  the  fitting  room,  and  ushers  Galatea  out. 
For  a  moment  the  stage  is  empty.  Then  the  bell  rings, 
and  Carmen  enters  with  Augusto.] 

[AuGUSTO  is  a  young  man  of  twenty-five,  whose  sole 
preoccupation  is  the  care  and  adornment  of  his  person. 
He  is  dressed  in  an  ultra-fashionable,  light  colored 
morning  suit,  which  is  slightly  effeminate  in  effect. 
His  shirt,  tie,  shoes — in  short  all  the  articles  of  his 
attire — blend  in  a  harmony  of  delicate  hues.  He 
sports  a  velour  hat,  whose  soft,  wide  brim,  turned  up  on 
one  side  and  down  on  the  other,  rivals  the  meticulous 
lure  of  the  coquette.  His  blond  hair  billows  above 
his  brow  in  sweeping  waves,  one  or  two  of  which  break 
gracefully  over  his  forehead.  His  moustache  is  equally 
exquisite,  yet,  in  spite  of  his  preciosity  and  affected 
speech,  there  is  something  about  his  person  which  is 
undeniably  attractive.'] 
Carmen.  [Obseguiously-I  Do  step  in,  Senor  Viz- 
conde,  and  be  seated.  I  will  deliver  the  message. — My 
God,  how  sweet  that  man  smells! 

Augusto.  [Deigning  to  accept  the  proffered  chair,  but 
without  sitting  down.]     Thanks  awfully. 

Carmen.  Did  the  Vizconde  meet  his  father,  the  Conde, 
on  the  stairs? 

Augusto.     Meet  my  father?     No. 

Carmen.  [Seeking  a  pretext  to  prolong  the  conversa- 
tion-]    The  Conde  left  a  moment  ago.  .  .  . 

Augusto.  Did  he?  Tell  Madame  Pepita  that  I  am 
here — that  is,  if  she  is  disengaged. 

Carmen.     Certainly.     If  the  Vizconde  has  a  moment  to 


172  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  I] 

spare  .  .  .  Madame  is  with  a  customer,  an  actress.     Per- 
haps you  have  heard  the  name?     Galatea. 

AuGUSTO.     [Quickly. '\     Galatea?    When  did  she  arrive? 
Carmen.     Half  an  hour  ago,  Vizconde.     She  is  select- 
ing models  with  Madame. 
AuGUSTO.     Let  me  see  her  at  once. 
Carmen.    Galatea? 
AuGUSTO.     No,  Madame  Pepita. 
Carmen.     Yes,  Vizconde. 

AuGUSTO.  Do  not  tell  her  I  am  here,  but  say  it  i» 
urgent.     Remember,  not  one  word  to  Galatea. 

Carmen.  No,  Virconde.  She  will  be  with  you  di- 
rectly.— Holy  Mother!  What  beautiful  nails!  [Goes  out 
examining  her  owni\ 

AuGUSTO.  [Smiling  fatuously.^  It  cannot  be  helped. 
Ah,  I  wonder  what  they  see  ? 

[He  looks  at  himself  in  the  three-panelled  mirror, 
then  in  the  pier  glass,  then  in  a  hand  mirror  which 
lies  upon  the  table,  adjusting  some  detail  of  his  suit, 
tie  or  hair  at  each.  Pulling  a  chain,  to  which  a  small 
bottle  of  perfume  is  attached,  from  his  trousers  pocket, 
he  pours  a  few  drops  upon  his  handkerchief.  Then, 
he  takes  a  small  comb  from  a  case  and  deftly  fluffs 
the  waves  of  his  hair.  Then,  he  twists  the  ends  of 
his  moustache  between  his  thumb  and  fcfrefinger,  makes 
the  circuit  of  the  mirrors  again,  and,  finally,  selecting 
a  slender  Egyptian  cigarette  from  an  incredible  case, 
lights  it  with  a  patent  lighter  before  sitting  himself 
down  to  smoke,  seated  midway  between  the  two  mirrors, 
from  which  point  of  vantage  he  is  able  to  survey  him- 
self upon  all  sides  at  once.  He  is  interrupted  in  this 
agreeable  occupation  by  Madame  Pepita,  who  enters 
hurriedly,  followed  by  Carmen.] 
Madame  Pepita.  [To  Carmen.]  But  why  all  this 
mystery?  Will  you  tell  me  who  wants  to  see  me?  What 
is  the  matter  with  you,  anyhow? 


[ACT  I]  MADAME  PEPITA  173 

AuGUSTO.  [Remaining  seated,  without  deigning  to  re- 
move his  eyes  from  the  mirror.^     Pepita,  it  is  I. 

Madame  Pepita.     Vizconde! 

[AuGUSTO  directs  a  killing  glance  at  Carmen^  who 
responds  with  a  look  of  admiration.^ 

Carmen.  [As  she  goes  out.'\  When  he  looks  at  you, 
it's  divine! 

AuGUSTO.  [Twirling  his  moustache  complacently,  with- 
out taking  his  eyes  from  the  glass.^  Yes,  Pepita,  it  is  I. 
Don't  call  me  Vizconde,  call  me  what  you  used  to  when 
you  lived  with  us. 

Madame  Pepita.     [Ravished.]     Oh,  Senorito  Augusto! 

AuGUSTO.  [Still  more  condescendingly. 1  Or  just  plain 
Augusto. 

Madame  Pepita.     Senorito  Augusto!     The  very  idea! 

Augusto.  You  witnessed  my  entrance  into  the  world, 
Pepita. 

Madame  Pepita.  How  long  ago  it  seems!  [About 
to  cry.]     Your  poor  mother! 

Augusto.  [Abstracted,  still  preoccupied  with  himself.] 
Yes,  my  poor  mother!  Such  is  life;  some  die,  others  are 
born.     Which  is  which? 

Madame  Pepita.     Who  knows,  Vizconde? 

Augusto.  No  douht  you  wonder  how  it  is  I  come  to 
be  up  so  early? 

Madame  Pepita.  The  Vizconde  knows  he  is  welcome 
at  any  hour. 

Augusto.  It  may  surprise  you,  but  I  have  come,  my 
dear,  to  ask  a  favor. 

Madame  Pepita.     Oh,  Vizconde! 

Augusto.  Pepita,  times  are  hard.  Although  my  habits 
may  be.  .  .  .  [Lowering  his  eyes.]  The  pace  today  is  a 
trifle  rapid.  A  man  of  my  age  with  my  advantages.  .  .  . 
[Gazing  at  himself  from  head  to  foot.]  Well,  I  must 
resign  myself.  [Smiles.]  Love  is  expensive.  And  women 
have  become  so  dreadfully  prosaic.     I  am  madly  in  love 


174  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  I] 

with  a  woman — why  conceal  It?    You  know  her — Galatea? 

Madame  Pepita.     Galatea?    Who  .  .  .   ? 

AuGUSTO.  Precisely.  [Smiles.'\  Who  is  looking  over 
your  models.  Hence  the  need  of  secrecy:  I  do  not  wish  her 
to  see  me.  [Madame  Pepita  moves  over  and  closes  the 
door.'l  Thank  you  so  much.  She  is  a  regal  creature. 
{^Turning  to  admire  himself  again  in  an  ecstasy  of  self- 
satisfaction.^  Although  I  say  it  myself,  she  has  exquisite 
taste. 

Madame  Pepita,    Well,  she  is  certainly  hard  to  please. 

AuGUSTO.  But  she  is  crazy  about  me.  I  am  sorry  for 
the  poor  girl.  She  is  in  despair  over  the  question  of  clothes; 
you  know  what  models  are  in  Madrid.  Finally,  I  said 
to  her:     Why  not  see  Madame  Pepita? 

Madame  Pepita.     Oh,  Vizconde! 

AuausTO.  It  will  be  worth  your  while — and  so  I 
dropped  in  myself.  Money  is  no  object  in  this  case.  When 
you  make  out  the  bill.  .  .  . 

Madame  Pepita.  Oh,  Vizconde!  Since  you  are  to 
pay  the  bill.  .  .  . 

AuGUSTO.  No,  Pepita,  no ;  not  exactly.  Unfortunately, 
I  shall  not  pay. 

Madame  Pepita.    Eh? 

AuGUSTO.  I  adore  her,  she  adores  me,  but  there  are 
complications.  In  fact,  I  suspect  that  somewhere,  in  the 
background,  there  is  some  despicable  creature  who  does 
pay.  \^^ghing.'\  Some  miserable  old  reprobate — at  least 
so  I  gather  from  her  maid,  Carmelina,  an  adorable  blonde 
— [Lowering  his  eyes^  who  conceals  nothing  from  me. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Sincerely  alarmed. 1  You  don't  tell 
me  .  .  .   ? 

AuGUSTO.  Permit  yourself  a  little  liberty  when  you 
make  out  the  bill — I  mean  as  to  price.  [With  an  endear- 
ing Pat.]     And  we'll  split  the  difference.     How  is  that? 

Madame  Pepita.     But,  Vizconde — 

AuGUSTO.  [Growing  more  and  more  affectionate.'\ 
Nonsense.     Let    the    other    chap    do    the    worrying.     Ah, 


iJCT  /]  MADAME  PEPITA  175 

Pepita,  you  are  just  like  my  poor,  dear  mother.     \^Becom- 
ing  sentimental.'\     She  was  fond  of  you. 

Madame  Pepita.  \_Overcomej  preparing  to  cry.'\  Yes, 
your  poor  mother. 

AuGUSTO.  But  enough  of  that!  Charge  her  fifteen 
hundred  pesetas. 

Catalina.  [^Entering  suddenly,  without  noticing 
AuGUSTO.]  Mamma,  I  am  going  out  to  the  corner  to  buy 
some  note  paper.  Gregoria  has  asked  me  to  write  to 
her  young  man. 

Madame  Pepita.  What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  you? 
Don't  you  know  how  to  address  a  gentleman? 

Catalina.     {Frightened.^     Oh! 

Madame  Pepita.     Here  is  the  Vizconde. 

Catalina.     Yes  ...  I  didn't  see  him  first. 

Madame  Pepita.  Well,  what  else  have  you  to  say  for 
yourself  ? 

Catalina.  {Offering  her  hand  to  Augusto^  who  takes 
it  gingerly.^     How  do  you  do? 

Madame  Pepita.     Say  how  do  you  do,  Vizconde? 

Augusto.     {Condescendingly. '\     Oh,  never  mind! 

Catalina.     {Firmly.']     I'm  sure   I   don't  care. 

Augusto.  {Insinuatingly .]  Is  this  .  .  .  original  young 
lady  your  daughter? 

Madame  Pepita.  Yes,  Vizconde,  my  daughter  and  my 
punishment. 

Augusto.  Very  well,  then  we  understand  each  other. 
You  needn't  bother  to  see  me  out.  {Smiling.]  The  girls 
will  be  waiting  at  the  door. 

{Retires,   accompanied   by   Madame   Pepita,   who 
returns  immediately.] 

Catalina.     {As  he  disappears.]     Conceited  puppy. 

{She  has  changed  her  dress,  but  is  still  ungroomed 
and  untidy,  as  before.] 

Madame  Pepita.     {Re-entering.]     Are  you  still  here? 

Catalina.     {Intimidated.]     I  was  looking  for  my  book. 

Madame  Pepita.     Haven't  I  told  you  a  hundred  times 


176  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  /] 

not  to  come  in  when   I  have  people  here,  without  first 
dressing  yourself  properly? 

Catalina.  [Inspecting  herself  in  the  mirror.^  But  I 
am  dressed  properly. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Surveying  her  from  head  to  foot.] 
For  what? 

Catalina.  [With  sincere  conviction.]  I  have  on  a  new 
skirt  and  a  clean  waist. 

Madame  Pepita.  And  then  you've  taken  a  turn  with 
them  on  in  the  coal  bin!  Come  here!  [Pushing  her  this 
way  and  that,  as  she  fixes  her  dress.]  Aren't  you  ashamed 
to  be  seventeen  and  not  be  able  to  put  your  skirt  on 
straight  yet? 

Catalina.     Ouch!    You  hurt. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Still  pushing  her  around.]  It  will 
do  you  good. 

Catalina.    Yes,  it's  fun  for  you. 

Galatea.  [Outside.]  It's  awfully  good-looking,  of 
course   ,    .    . 

Madame  Pepita.  [Opening  the  door,  which  she  closed 
previously.]     Get  out!     Somebody  is  coming. 

Catalina.     Well,  can  I  go,  then? 

Madame  Pepita.  Go  to  the  devil,  if  that  will  do  any 
good. 

[Catalina  goes  out  on  the  left  as  Galatea  enters 
on  the  right.  A  sewing  girl  accompanies  her,  who 
retires  immediately  without  speaking.] 

Galatea.  [Sniffing  the  air.]  Hm!  So  he  has  been 
here? 

Madame  Pepita.  [Pretending  not  to  understand.] 
I  beg  your  pardon — 

Galatea.  [Immensely  pleased.]  Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 
What  did  he  want?     I  can  smell  him. 

Madame  Pepita.  I  have  no  idea  to  what  you  refer, 
sefiora. 

Galatea.  How  innocent  we  are!  I  refer  to  that 
rascal,  Augusto.     Nobody  could  mistake  that  odor  of  tube- 


[ACT  /]  MADAME  PEPITA  177 

rose.  [Deeply  gratified.'\  It  would  have  surprised  me  if  he 
hadn't  come.  Probably  he  wanted  to  find  out  whether  or 
not  I  was  alone.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  What  did  you  tell  him? 
Suppose  he  meets  the  author  of  his  being  on  the  stairs?  Ha, 
ha,  ha!  [Becoming  serious.^  Well,  I  ought  not  to  laugh, 
I  suppose.  He's  been  an  angel  to  me — yes,  that's  a  good 
joke,  isn't  it?  A  real  angel.  What  in  heaven's  name  were 
we  talking  about,  anyway  ? 

Madame  Pepita.     I  hope  you  found  something  to  suit? 

Galatea.     Oh,  yes!     You  have  wonderful  taste. 

Madame  Pepita.     [Bowing.']     Senora! 

Galatea.  There's  a  blue  gown  that  fairly  took  my 
breath  away,  and  a  lace  negligee,  somewhat  low  ...  do 
you  get  me?  [Sighing.]  It  was  fascinating.  Imagine  me 
in  it! 

Madame  Pepita.  Did  you  notice  a  mauve  crepe  de 
chine  teagown,  with  a  jacket  effect  of  point  d'Alenqonf 
It  would  be  marvelous  with  your  lines.  Try  it  on,  and  we 
can  mark  the  alterations. 

Galatea.  No,  thanks,  I  don't  believe  I'll  try  on  any- 
thing to-day. 

Madame  Pepita.    You  won't? 

Galatea.  No,  I  am  not  interested.  You  might  make 
me  up  two  or  three  batiste  blouses,  perhaps — don't  you 
know?  The  cheapest  things  you  have — what  you  use  for 
chemises  will  do.  And  send  me  a  bill  for  four  thousand 
pesetas. 

Madame  Pepita.     Four  thousand  what? 

Galatea.  Half  for  you  and  half  for  me.  My  God,  a 
woman  has  to  live  somehow! 

Madame  Peptta.     Oh,  the  bill?     But  .  .  . 

Galatea.  While  you  are  about  it,  I  don't  suppose  you'd 
mind  sending  it  in  duplicate? 

Madame  Pepita.     In  duplicate? 

Galatea.  One  for  the  old  man  and  one  for  the  boy. 
[Noticing  the  horrified  look  on  Madame  Pepita's  face.] 
While  a  woman's  young,  she's  got  to  provide  for  her  old 


178  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  /] 

age.  What  are  men  for,  anyway,  except  to  pay  bills? 
There  are  lots  of  women  who  enjoy  spending  money. 
Every  time  they  have  anything,  something  else  takes  their 
eye,  so  off  they  go  and  buy.  [Fery  earnestly.]  But  that's 
not  my  style;  I've  too  much  sense.  The  old  man  is  no 
good.  [Madame  Pepita  makes  a  gesture  of  dissent.]  I 
am  merely  taking  him  as  an  example — no  reflections  upon 
you.  Tell  me,  would  you  put  up  with  him  for  a  minute 
if  he  never  came  across?  Of  course  not.  {Imitating  in 
pantomime  the  counting  of  bills.]  But  the  young  fellow  is 
all  right.  Besides,  what's  the  use  of  denying  it?  I'm 
mad  over  him.  But  what  does  he  expect?  I'm  not  going 
to  be  the  only  one  who  loosens  up.     Take  that  from  me. 

Madame  Pepita.     If  you  look  at  it  in  that  light  .  .  . 

Galatea.  Light  nothing!  Look  at  it  as  it  is. 
Suppose  now  I  go  in  for  clothes?  Clothes  cost  money — 
you  know  that;  and  you  can't  raise  a  cent  on  them  after- 
wards to  save  your  neck.  A  woman's  a  fool  to  spend  money 
on  clothes.  [Contemptuously.]  Jewels  are  no  better. 
You  have  to  pay  twenty  for  what  you  can't  sell  for  ten. 
Cash  is  safer,  and  land.  Every  penny  I  save  goes  into 
land. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Impressed.]  Then  you  think  well 
of  real  estate? 

Galatea.  Yes.  The  next  time  you  run  up  to  Paris, 
look  out  of  the  window  as  the  train  leaves  Torrelodones. 
You'll  see  a  house  on  the  right,  with  a  fence  painted  blue. 

Madame  Pepita.  With  a  tin  summerhouse  in  front, 
with  a  vine  on  it? 

Galatea.     Lovely,  isn't  it?    That's  me. 

Madame  Pepita.     [Enchanted.]     You? 

Galatea.     Drop  off  if  you  have  time  and  look  me  over. 

Madame  Pepita.     Thanks. 

Galatea.  I'm  usually  there  Sundays,  watering  my  let- 
tuce. [A  pause.]  But  probably  you  have  more  important 
things  to  do,  and  I'm  taking  your  time. 


[ACT  7]  MADAME  PEPITA  179 

Madame  Pepita.     No,  indeed! 

Galatea.     Oh,  yes,  you  have!     I'll  look  you  up  later. 
Remember — two  bills.     Don't  forget!     See  you  later. 
Madame  Pepita.     I  shall  hope  to  see  you.  .  .  . 
Galatea.     I've  taken  an  awful  fancy  to  you — indeed, 
I  have! 

Madame  Pepita.    Charmed,  to  be  sure. 

[Both  go  out.     After  a  moment,  Madame  Pepita 

returns.^ 

Madame  Pepita.     [To  herself.']     A  thousand  pesetas, 

four  thousand  pesetas,  fifteen  hundred,  two  bills — and  all 

for  two  batiste  blouses!     God,  at  this  rate  I  can  dismiss 

the  establishment ! 

[She  goes  up  to  the  table  and  examines  the  samples 
that  Alberto  has  left.     A  noise  outside.     Then,  the 
bell    rings   and    Don    Guillermo    enters,   supporting 
Catalina,   pale   and  frightened.     Cristina   and  an- 
other girl  follow  immediately.] 
Madame     Pepita.     [Alarmed,     rushing     up     to     her 
daughter.]     What    is    the    matter?     What   has   happened, 
Catalina? 

Catalina.      [Very        much       frightened.]      Nothing, 
mamma  .  .  .  nothing  at  all. 

Don  Guillermo.     Don't  be  alarmed,  senora. 
Madame  Pepita.     Sir! 

Catalina.     Mamma,  this  is  Don  Guillermo. 
Don  Guillermo.     The  young  lady  has  turned  her  ankle. 
Perhaps  you  had  better  sit  down.     [Assisting  Catalina  to 
an  armchair.]     As  she  was  crossing  the   street,   an   auto- 
mobile almost  ran  over  her.     Fortunately,  it  missed  .  .  . 
Catalina.     There  wasn't  any  danger. 
Don     Guillermo.     Naturally,     she    was     frightened. 
Have  you  a  glass  of  water? 

Madame  Pepita.     Squeeze  a  lime  in  it. 

[Cristina  goes  out.] 
Don  Guillermo.     I  should  suggest  an  orange. 


i8o  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  I] 

[The  Sewing  Girl  goes  out.} 

Catalina.  I'm  all  right  now.  I  was  frightened,  that's 
all. 

Madame  Pepita.  Mooning  along  as  usual,  were  you, 
with  your  head  in  the  clouds? 

Don  Guillermo.  Don't  scold  her.  Accidents  will 
happen. 

Catalina.  [Insistinff.^  Mamma,  this  is  Don  Guil- 
lermo, the  gentleman  who  lives  upstairs. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Brusguely.'\  I  heard  you  the  first 
time.  [Affably,  to  Don  Guillermo.]  This  is  a  great 
pleasure.     We  are  much  obliged  to  you. 

Don  Guillermo.  Not  at  all.  I  was  in  time  to  prevent 
a  catastrophe,  which  somebody  else  would  have  prevented 
had  I  not  been  in  time. 

[Meanwhile  Catalina  has  taken  his  hand,  affection- 
ately-l 

Madame  Pepita.  Won't  you  sit  down? — Catalina,  let 
go  of  the  gentleman's  hand;  it  embarrasses  him. 

[Catalina  lets  go  of  Don  Guillermo's  hand.l 

Don  Guillermo.  [Sympathetically. '[  No,  indeed. 
She  is  a  little  nervous.  [The  Sewing  Girl  re-enters  with 
a  glass  of  water,  which  Don  Guillermo  offers  to  Cata- 
lina.]    Drink  this. 

Sewing  Girl.  We  had  to  put  vinegar  in  it  because 
there  wasn't  anything  sweet  in  the  house. 

Madame  Pepita.     That  will  do. 

Catalina.  [Almost  choking,  refusing  to  drink."]  Yes, 
mamma,  because  Gregoria  finished  the  orangeade  yesterday, 
when  she  had  that  fainting  fit,  after  she  had  a  quarrel  with 
her  young  man. 

Madame  Pepita.     Gregoria  a  fainting  fit?    The  kitchen 
cat  will  be  having  a  nervous  breakdown  next!     [To  the 
girl.]     Take  this  away  and  go  back  to  your  work. 
[The  Sewing  Girl  retires  with  the  glass.] 

Catalina.  [Aside,  to  Don  Guillermo.]  Don't  you 
go  away. 


[ACT  /]  MADAME  PEPITA  i8i 

Madame  Pepita.    What  was  that? 

Catalina.  \_Timidly.'\  I  asked  Don  Guillermo  not 
to  go  away. 

Don  Guillermo.  But  I  must.  However,  I  live  only 
one  flight  up.  If  you  need  me  at  any  time,  Guillermo  de 
Armendariz  is  my  name. 

Madame  Pepita.  My  daughter  tells  me  that  you  are 
a  very  learned  man. 

Don  Guillermo.     [Unimpressed. '\     That  depends. 

Madame  Pepita.    You  are  a  member  of  the  Academy. 

Don  Guillermo.  [Smiling. '[  I  could  scarcely  avoid 
that. 

Madame  Pepita.     [Astonished.']     Avoid  it? 

Catalina.  He  says  k's  a  great  pity  that  I  am  such  an 
ignoramus. 

Don  Guillermo.  I  never  said  that,  because  you  are 
not  an  ignoramus. 

Madame  Pepita.  Oh,  yes  she  is!  But  it's  not  her 
fault.  It's  mine — ^that  is,  it  isn't  mine,  either.  What 
could  I  do?  I've  spent  my  whole  life  working  for  her 
like  a  slave,  trying  to  scrape  together  enough  money  so 
that  she  wouldn't  have  to  go  through  what  I've  been  through 
in  this  world.  Tied  down  as  I  am  to  the  worry  of  these 
miserable  clothes,  how  was  I  to  tend  to  her  education? 
That's  why  she's  like  this,  but  you  needn't  think  that  it 
isn't  a  mortification  to  me,  because  when  God  has  given 
you  a  daughter — or  maybe  it  was  the  devil — you  just  want 
to  have  her  nonplussed  ultra,  and  it's  a  great  grief  to  me 
that  she  isn't.  But  why  am  I  telling  all  this  to  you,  when 
you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  have  a  child?  That  is,  maybe 
you  do  know.  Anyhow,  it's  none  of  my  business.  I  don't 
mean  to  be  inquisitive   .    .    . 

Don  Guillermo.  [Smiling.']  No,  unfortunately  I  do 
not  know.  I  am  alone  in  the  world.  When  I  was  young, 
I  had  no  time  to  marry,  and  now  that  I  am  growing  old, 
it  is  too  late.  My  books  are  to  blame,  and  they  console 
me  for  what  I  have  lost,  which  is  no  more  than  their  duty. 


182  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  /] 

Since  the  subject  has  been  mentioned,  I  wonder  if  you  would 
allow  me  to  devote  a  little  of  my  time  to  Catalina's  educa- 
tion? 

Madame  Pepita.     Education? 

Don  Guillermo.  It  seems  providential — ^we  are  good 
friends  already.  We  have  talked  together,  and  I  am  fond 
of  her.     She  is  intelligent. 

Catalina.      [Greatly    astonished.]     Am    I? 

Don  Guillermo.  She  will  learn  quickly;  I  guarantee 
it. 

Madame  Pepita.  You  give  her  lessons?  A  member 
of  the  Academy? 

Catalina.     Certainly,  mamma. 

Don  Guillermo.  It  will  be  a  pleasure.  Then,  I  shall 
feel  that  my  learning  is  actually  of  some  use  in  the  world. 
It  has  all  been  rather  selfish  till  now.  What  do  you  say? 
Is  it  agreed  ? 

Madame  Pepita.  [Greatly  affected.']  Ah,  you  have 
no  idea  how  I  appreciate  this!  [Throwing  her  arms  about 
Catalina,  and  bursting  into  tears.]  My  dear,  you  are  to 
sit  at  the  feet  of  an  Academician! 

Don  Guillermo.  [Surprised.]  It  hardly  justifies  the 
emotion.     It  is  not  so  serious. 

Madame  Pepita.  But  I  feel  terribly,  because  we  are 
dreadfully  unhappy.  Naturally,  you  would  never  suspect 
it,  but  since  you're  so  fond  of  my  daughter,  I  can  tell  you. 
Besides,  everybody  knows  it,  anyway.  We  are  dreadfully 
unhappy,  right  here  as  we  sit,  because  this  poor  child  has  no 
father.     You  imagine  that  I  am  a  widow  .  .  . 

Don  Guillermo.     Senora,  I  imagine  nothing  of  the  sort. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Hastily.]  Well,  I'm  not,  I'm 
married ;  that  is,  I  am  not  married  either — I  mean,  yes  I  am ; 
but  it's  just  the  same  as  if  I  wasn't  because  my  husband, 
that  is,  the  man  I  thought  was  my  husband — 

Don  Guillermo.  But  you  owe  me  no  explanations;  I 
am  not  concerned  in  the  affair. 

Madame  Pepita.     [Without  stopping  to  draw  breath.] 


[JCT  I]  MADAME  PEPITA  183 

But  I  want  you  to  know,  so  that  you  won't  think  .  .  . 
You  see,  it  was  this  way:  My  parents  were  good,  honest 
people,  my  mother  was  lady's  maid  and  my  father  butler 
in  the  house  of  the  Counts  de  la  Vega  de  Lezo — you  have 
heard  of  them? — but  I  always  had  a  taste  for  clothes,  so 
I  went  with  some  French  women  to  be  a  dressmaker  in 
Buenos  Aires;  and  when  I  got  there  I  met  the  father  of 
this  child.  I  was  young  and  impressionable  then.  He 
was  a  Russian — no  doubt  about  that — and  we  got  married, 
church  and  all,  but  without  his  settling  anything  on  me, 
because  it  isn't  done  out  there,  and  I  thought  he  was  the 
manager  of  a  printing  house;  but  two  months  afterwards 
he  turned  out  to  be  a  duke — yes,  sir,  a  Russian  duke,  who, 
because  he  was  the  black  sheep  of  the  family,  had  been 
shipped  off  to  America,  and  then  his  father  died,  and  he 
inherited,  and  had  to  go  back  to  his  own  country.  But 
that  wasn't  the  worst  of  it.  The  worst  of  it  was  that  he 
was  a  bigamist. 

Don  Guillermo.     A  bigamist? 

Madame  Pepita.  Yes,  he  was  married  already  in 
Russia  to  a  woman  of  his  own  rank,  and  he  ran  oflE  with 
her.  So  when  this  poor  child  came  into  the  world,  she 
hadn't  any  father. 

Don    Guillermo.     How   singularly   unfortunate! 

Madame  Pepita.  But  I  kept  right  on  sewing,  and 
when  he  got  back  to  Russia,  he  sent  me  money,  for  it  is  only 
fair  to  admit  he  was  always  a  gentleman,  and  then  I 
came  back  to  Spain,  and  established  myself  in  business, 
and  since  I've  got  taste,  if  I  do  say  it  myself,  we've  gotten 
ahead.  Besides,  now  and  then  he  sent  me  money.  But 
it's  a  long  time  now  since  he  went  away,  and  I  haven't 
seen  him  for  sixteen  years,  and  my  daughter  doesn't  know 
him  at  all,  and  she  never  will,  for  we  don't  even  know 
whether  he  is  alive  or  dead,  and  probably  he  has  other 
children,  anyway ;  and  here  I  am  neither  married  nor  single, 
and  not  even  a  widow!  So  you  see  that  I  have  plenty  of 
reason  for  being  unhappy. 


i84  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  /] 

Don  Guillermo.  Not  so  much  as  you  think.  You 
have  your  health,  you  have  your  work,  an  income,  a  quiet 
conscience  .  .  . 

Madame  Pepita.  Yes,  one  thing  I  can  say  is  that  my 
conscience  never  troubled  me. 

Don  Guillermo.  What  more  do  you  ask?  Love 
played  you  a  trick.  Pshaw!  In  exchange,  you  have  a 
daughter,  a  pledge  of  happiness,  a  reason  for  living.  You 
had  your  illusion  of  love  for  a  time,  but,  believe  me,  even 
sadder  than  to  have  been  deceived,  is  never  to  have  had  the 
opportunity.  Hereafter,  you  must  count  me  as  one  of  your 
friends.  For  the  present,  I  must  bid  you  good-bye.  You 
have  my  sympathy  .    .    . 

Madame  Pepita.  Thanks  very  much.  If  I  can  be  of 
any  service — 

Don  Guillermo.     Perhaps  later.     Good-bye. 

Madame  Pepita.    Adios. 

[Don  Guillermo  ffoes  out.    A  pause  follows.'] 

Carmen.  [Entering.]  Madame,  the  salesman  has  comt 
with  the  English  samples. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Drying  her  eyes.]  Show  him  into 
the  other  room.  I  shall  attend  to  his  case  immediately.  [To 
Catalina^  who  is  gazing  pensively  into  space.]  What  are 
you  mooning  about? 

Catalina.  Isn't  it  sad  not  to  be  anybody's  daughter, 
and  not  to  have  a  father  like  everybody? 

Madame  Pepita.  [Taking  her  into  her  arms.]  You 
are  my  daughter. 

Catalina.     Oh,  mamma,  we  are  dreadfully  unhappy! 

Madame  Pepita.  We  are,  my  child,  we  are,  indeed! 
[Moving  off  a  little,  and  placing  both  hands  on  Catalina's 
shoulders,  while  she  looks  her  straight  in  the  eye.]  But 
remember  this:  one  thing  consoles  me  for  all  our  mis- 
fortunes. In  my  daughter's  veins  runs  noble  blood! 
Curtain 


ACT  II 

Catalina  and  Don  Guillermo  are  discovered  a^  the 
curtain  rises.  Don  Guillermo  paces  up  and  down  with 
the  air  of  a  person  feeling  himself  thoroughly  at  home, 
while  Catalina  writes  at  a  small  table  which  has  been 
installed  near  one  of  the  windows  to  do  duty  as  a  desk. 
It  is  lihered  with  books  and  papers,  all  in  hopeless  con- 
fusion. Presently,  Catalina  ceases  writing,  examining 
the  paper  on  which  she  has  been  working  as  if  looking  for 
mistakes.  After  conscientious  scrutiny,  she  blots  it  and  lays 
it  upon  the  table,  turning  to  contemplate  her  inky  fingers 
with  an  expression  half  despairing,  half  resigned.  Upon  a 
second  inspection,  she  becomes  even  more  discouraged,  as 
the  ink  has  not  disappeared.  Finally,  running  her  fingers 
nervously  through  her  hair,  she  rubs  them  upon  her  apron, 
and  heaves  a  profound  sigh. 

Don    Guillermo.     [^Turning.']     Have   you   finished? 

Catalina.    Yes. 

Don  Guillermo.    What  are  you  doing  now? 

Catalina.  [Still  rubbing  her  fingers."]  Wiping  my 
fingers.  [Exhibiting  her  hands.]  I've  a  little  ink  on 
them.  [Don  Guillermo  smiles.]  Writing  makes  me 
furious ! 

Don  Guillermo.    Why? 

Catalina.  Because  it  gets  my  hands  in  such  a  state — 
it's  the  pen.  I  dip  it  into  the  ink,  and  it  runs  up  all  over 
the  handle.  I  use  the  pen-wiper  just  as  you  tell  me  to, 
but  the  more  I  wipe,  the  more  ink  comes  off. 

Don  Guillermo.  Have  patience.  It  will  all  come  in 
time.  [Amused.]  The  beginning  is  always  difBcult.  We 
shall  soon  see  how  fast  you  get  on. 

Catalina.     [Discouraged.]     But  look  at  these  letters. 

i8s 


i86  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  II] 

The  I's  are  all  crooked,  and  the  m's  are  all  pointed.  It 
makes  me  mad. 

Don  Guillermo.     [Smilinff.l     Does  it? 

Catalina.  Because  I  know  how  things  ought  to  be, 
and,  then,  I  go  and  do  them  just  the  opposite,  so,  although 
I  know,  I  don't  know,  and  I  get  desperate.  [Lookinff  at 
the  paper.]  The  Vs  ought  to  be  straight.  Well,  I  try  to 
make  them  straight,  and  they  turn  out  crooked,  so  what's 
the  use  of  knowing?  Of  course,  when  I'm  wrong  because 
I  don't  know,  I'm  an  idiot,  but  when  I  know  I'm  wrong 
and  then  do  it,  what  am  I? 

Don  Guillermo.  [Patting  her  affectionately  on  the 
head.]  You  are  an  intelligent  young  woman,  who  must 
work  hard  in  order  to  overcome  the  first  difficulties,  and 
put  what  she  knows  to  good  use.  That  is  precisely  what 
learning  means. 

Catalina.  [After  a  pause,  looking  at  Don  Guil- 
lermo intently.]  Don  Guillermo,  what  use  is  learning, 
anyhow  ? 

Don  Guillermo.     Learning  teaches  us  to  know. 

Catalina.     Yes,  I  understand  that.     But  what  use  is  it? 

Don  Guillermo.  [Smiling.]  You  will  soon  see.  It 
is  useful  in  many  ways,  which,  little  by  little,  you  will 
discover  yourself.  Even  if  it  were  of  no  use,  it  would 
still  be  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the  world,  because 
it  is  the  only  thing  that  is  satisfying  in  itself.  When  we 
have  once  peeped  into  the  Garden  of  Knowledge,  even  at 
the  tiniest  gate,  it  is  astounding  what  marvellous  voyages 
we  are  able  to  make,  and  what  sights  we  can  see,  without 
taking  the  trouble  of  leaving  our  chairs. 

Catalina.  I  suppose  that's  why  you  never  notice  what's 
on  your  plate  at  dinner,  and  laugh  to  yourself  all  the 
time,  and  walk  out  on  the  street  without  tying  your  shoes? 

Don  Guillermo.  [Slightly  annoyed.]  What  a  keen 
little  critic  we  are! 

Catalina.  No,  I  don't  mean  anything  uncomplimen- 
tary, only  I  can't  help  noticing  what  you  do,  because  I 


[ACT  II]  MADAME  PEPITA  187 

watch  you  all  the  time.  You  mustn't  think  I'm  criticis- 
ing.    Everything  you  do  seems  right  to  me. 

Don  Guillermo.  [Greatly  pleased.]  Yes,  my  dear, 
I  know  you  are  sweet  and  good,  and  you  are  very  fond  of 
me. 

Catalina.  Yes,  I  am.  [Artlessly.]  Are  you  very 
fond  of  me? 

Don  Guillermo.     Don't  you  know  it? 

Catalina.  [Sincerely  pleased.]  Of  course  I  do.  I 
may  be  stupid  about  other  things,  but  not  about  that.  I 
know  you  are  fond  of  me,  because  when  I  broke  that  jar 
the  other  day  in  the  library,  you  didn't  say  one  word  about 
it,  though  it  was  valuable.  That's  how  I  know.  I  didn't 
mean  to. 

Don  Guillermo.    You  have  talent,  too,  for  psychology. 

Catalina.     Now  you're  making  fun  of  me. 

Don  Guillermo.  I  am  very  fond  of  you — fonder  than 
you  can  imagine,  fonder  than  I  could  have  believed  pos- 
sible myself.  I  love  you  better  than  I  do  art  and  science 
put  together. 

Catalina.  [After  a  brief  silence.]  Are  we  going  to 
begin  this  all  over  again? 

Don  Guillermo.     No,  that  will  do  for  today. 

Catalina.  I  want  to  tell  you  a  secret.  [Drawing  near, 
mysteriously.]     We're  rich. 

Don  Guillermo.    Who? 

Catalina.  Mother  and  I.  Who  did  you  think? 
We've  inherited  a  million.  My  father  died  and  left  it  in 
his  will.  We  got  word  yesterday,  and  mother  has  gone 
to  see  the  lawyer.  Nobody  knows  except  Don  Luis;  he 
was  here  last  night  when  word  came.  Mother  says  she 
is  going  to  retire  from  business,  because  she's  sick  and 
tired  of  clothes,  and  we're  going  to  Escorial  to  live. 

Don  Guillermo.    To  Escorial? 

Catalina.  Yes,  mamma  owns  property  there,  and  she 
says  she's  going  to  build  houses  and  rent  them,  and  keep 
one,  too,  for  us  to  live  in,  that  has  a  big  garden  with  a 


i88  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  II] 

grotto,  and  a  fountain  in  the  middle,  besides  a  hot-house 
where  we  can  grow  camelias. 

[The  bell  rings.     Catalina  stops  short.] 
Here  she  comes  now. 

[Madame  Pepita  enters^  attired  in  a  simple  tailor- 
made  suit  of  grey  or  dark  blue;  also  a  mantilla.  She 
is  visibly  flustered  and  out  of  breath.] 

Don  Guillermo.     Good  morning. 

Madame  Pepita.  [About  to  pass  without  seeing  him.] 
Oh,  excuse  me!  I  didn't  notice  you.,  Good  morning. 
I'm  so  excited  I  don't  know  whether  I'm  on  my  head  or 
my  heels.     Has  she  told  you? 

Don  Guillermo.    Yes,  indeed. 

Madame  Pepita.  Terribly  sad,  isn't  it?  And  to  think 
of  my  being  caught  without  a  stitch  of  black  to  my  name! 
No  wonder  they  say :  "Go  to  the  Cutler's  house  for  wooden 
knives."  Here  I  am  fussing  about  other  people's  clothes, 
and  I  look  like  a  fright  myself.  I  wonder  what  the  notary 
thought  when  I  walked  in  in  colors  on  such  an  occasion? 

Don  Guillermo.  Don't  worry,  probably  he  never 
thought  at  all.     Sit  down.     It  is  a  matter  of  taste. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Sitting  down.]  Oh,  dear,  no! 
Whatever's  right  is  right,  and  for  my  part,  I  always  want 
to  do  the  correct  thing.  Poor  dear!  Think  of  his  re- 
membering us  at  such  a  time! 

Don  Guillermo.     He  has  done  no  more  than  his  duty. 

Madame  Pepita.  But  so  nicely.  [Bursting  into  tears.] 
Ah,  my  dear,  your  father  was  always  a  gentleman!  They 
tell  me  the  poor  man  was  ill  for  over  two  years,  not  able 
to  move  out  of  his  chair.  And  all  the  while  he  was  think- 
ing of  us,  and  we  were  sitting  here  calm  and  collected  as 
could  be,  without  suspecting  the  first  thing  about  it.  Oh, 
my  daughter!  [Embracing  Catalina^  who,  as  befits  the 
occasion,  assumes  an  expression  of  supreme  anguish.] 

Catalina.     Poor  mamma! 

Don     Guillermo.     [Removing     Catalina.]     Come, 


[ACT  II]  MADAME  PEPITA  189 

come,  you  must  not  upset  your  daughter.  It  is  not  right 
to  grieve  like  this. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Between  her  sobs,  artlessly.]  But 
I'm  not  grieving.  I  feel  I  can  tell  you,  because  you're  so 
wise  that  you  understand  anyhow. 

Don  Guillermo.     [Smiling.]     In  a  measure. 

Madame  Pepita.  And  that's  what  makes  me  feel  so 
badly,  not  to  be  able  to  grieve  as  I  ought.  Because  you 
see  how  the  man  has  behaved  to  us.  And  I  did  care  for 
him,  yes,  I  did!  He  was  the  apple  of  my  eye.  And  when 
it  all  happened,  seventeen  years  ago,  and  he  left  me  for- 
ever, believe  me,  it  was  all  I  could  do  to  go  on  living  be- 
cause of  my  child,  and  more  than  once,  yes,  more  than 
twice,  too,  I  had  a  mind  to  put  an  end  to  it  all. 

Catalina.     [In  tears  also.]     Poor  mamma! 

Madame  Pepita.  And  now  he's  gone  and  died,  and 
they  send  me  word  about  it!  [Beginning  to  cry  again.] 
Before  I  can  cry  the  way  I  feel  I  ought  to  cry,  I  have  to 
stop  and  try  to  remember  how  it  was  I  was  able  to  cry  then. 

Don  Guillermo.  But  there  is  no  obligation  what- 
ever upon  you  to  cry.  Even  if  there  were,  your  feelings 
are  beyond  your  control. 

Madame  Pepita.    You  are  right  there. 

Don  Guillermo.  To  compel  ourselves  to  feel  what 
we  do  not  feel  is  hypocrisy,  a  fraud  upon  ourselves,  because 
it  mortifies  our  pride  to  realize  that  our  feelings  do  not 
measure  up  to  our  expectations.  If  your  feelings  do  not 
prompt  you  to  cry,  you  ought  not  to  cry.  Tears,  unless 
they  are  heart-felt,  are  injurious.  They  do  no  good  to  the 
deceased. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Exaggeratedly.]  But  you  don't 
know  how  I  loved  him! 

Don  Guillermo.  Certainly  I  do,  but  your  love  has 
evaporated,  like  perfume  which  has  stood  in  a  wardrobe  for 
years.  Today  you  have  been  cleaning  house;  you  find  the 
bottle  and  it  is  empty.     The  contents  are  gone,  they  have 


I90  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  II] 

been  dissipated,  they  have  ceased  to  be.  You  have  forgotten 
him,  so  why  worry?  Little  by  little  our  bodies  change, 
until,  after  seven  years,  not  one  atom  of  what  we  once  were 
remains.  Remember,  he  has  been  absent  sixteen  years.  Not 
one  vestige  now  remains  of  the  flesh  and  blood  that  glowed 
and  quivered  with  love  for  him.  You  are  not  the  same 
woman,  you  are  a  different  woman,  who  has  had  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  that  man. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Sentimentally.]  But  the  soul,  Don 
Guillermo?     What  of  the  soul  ? 

Don  Guillermo.  The  soul  may  recall  vaguely  the 
emotions  which  the  body  has  felt,  but  it  cannot  continue 
to  feel  them. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Very  positively.]  Well,  an3rway, 
it  will  be  safer  to  go  into  mourning. 

Don  Guillermo.  And  very  proper,  if  it  affords  you 
any  relief. 

Madame  Pepita.  No,  on  account  of  what  people  will 
say.     After  all,  remember  I'm  inheriting  a  million. 

Don  Guillermo.  Yes,  that  fact  deserves  to  be  taken 
into   consideration. 

Madame  Pepita.  [To  Catalina.]  Dear,  run  out  and 
tell  Carmen  to  cut  you  a  blouse  from  the  crepe  we're  using 
for  the  Baroness's  tea-gown.  I'm  too  upset  to  think  of 
anything  for  myself. 

Catalina.     Yes,  mamma.     Don  Guillermo  .  .  . 

Don  Guillermo.  I  am  going  also.  It  is  growing 
late. 

Catalina.     Aren't  you  coming  back  to  dinner? 

Don  Guillermo.  I  dined  here  yesterday,  and  day  be- 
fore yesterday,  and  Sunday,  too,  if  my  memory  is  correct; 
and  this  is  only  Wednesday. 

Catalina.  Pshaw!  What  of  it?  He  is  coming,  isn't 
he,  mamma? 

Madame  Pepita.  Of  course  he  is.  If  he  isn't  here,  I 
always  feel  as  if  there  must  be  something  wrong  with  the 
table. 


[ACT  II]  MADAME  PEPITA  191 

Don  Guillermo.  Well,  since  you  insist.  You  have 
my  sympathy,  as  you  know,  although  I  believe  you  are  to 
be  congratulated. 

Madame  Pepita.  I  appreciate  it.  [Greatly  downcast.] 
We  must  do  the  best  we  can. 

Catalina.  [Going  to  the  door  with  DoN  Guillermo, 
and  taking  his  hand  as  if  'he  were  her  father.]  Don't  forget 
the  meringues  you  promised. 

Don  Guillermo.     I'll  bring  them  along. 

[As  Don  Guillermo  and  Catalina  go  out,  the 
door  bell  rings,  and  they  come  face  to  face  with  Don 
LuiSj   who   enters.     Each   gentleman   displays   plainly 
his   discomfiture   at   the   presence   of   the    other.     The 
CoNDE    turns    his    back,   affecting   indifference,   while 
Don  Guillermo  stares  him  up  and  down  in  disgust, 
which   he  does   not   attempt  to   conceal.     They   salute 
each    other,   however,    the    Conde    remaining    frigidly 
polite,  while  Don  Guillermo  mutters  an  acknowledg- 
ment between  his  teeth.] 
Don  Luis.     Good  afternoon,  Senor  de  Armendariz. 
Don    Guillermo.    Good    afternoon.     [Biting   off   the 
words.] 

[Goes  out  with  Catalina.] 
Don  Luis.     [After  Don  Guillermo  has  disappeared.] 
Does  this  good  man  spend  his  entire  time  here? 

Madame  Pepita.  [Smiling.]  He  is  giving  my  daughter 
lessons. 

Don  Luis.  Ah!  [Apparently  to  himself,  but  with  the 
evident  purpose  of  being  overheard.]  Such  assiduity  makes 
me  suspicious. 

Madame  Pepita.     How  so? 

Don  Luis.  [Significantly.]  We  may  take  that  up  later. 
At  present,  more  pressing  business  demands  our  attention. 
Have  you  had  time  to  rest?  Have  you  recovered  from 
last  night?  [Madame  Pepita  nods.]  Have  you  got  the 
money  ? 
Madame  Pepita.    Yes. 


192  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  II] 

Don  Luis.    Where  is  it? 

Madame  Pepita.  Why,  as  soon  as  I  received  it,  I  de- 
posited it  in  the  bank.  The  notary  went  along,  because  I 
was  afraid  to  trust  myself  in  the  street  alone  with  so  much 
money. 

Don  Luis.     Have  you  any  of  it  about  you  now? 

Madame  Pepita.     No.     Why  do  you  ask? 

Don  Luis.  I  fear  you  are  making  a  mistake.  It  is  a 
matter  which  involves  a  will.  A  demand  for  money  may 
be  made  upon  you  at  any  time,  and  I  consider  it  important 
that  you  have  sufficient  on  hand. 

Madame  Pepita.  I  thought  so,  too,  but  it  seems  not. 
The  notary  says  all  the  expenses  have  been  paid.  My  poor 
dear  arranged  for  everything  off  there  on  his  estate,  so  that 
I  shouldn't  have  a  thing  to  do  but  accept  the  money. 

Don  Luis.  I  appreciate  your  situation.  By  the  way, 
do  you  happen  to  have  four  hundred  pesetas?  [Without  al- 
lowing her  time  to  recover.]  As  a  first  installment  upon  a 
purchase  which  it  is  important  that  you  make,  a  magnificent 
opportunity — a  piece  of  property  next  to  your  own  at  Escorial, 
which  may  be  had  for  a  song.  A  friend  of  mine  is  in  financial 
difficulty. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Interested.]  Is  the  Conde  positive 
that  it  is  a  bargain  ? 

Don  Luis.  It  is  a  gift!  If  you  miss  this  opportunity, 
you  will  regret  it  all  your  life,  and  you  will  miss  it  unless 
you  can  let  me  have  four  hundred  pesetas  this  very  day. 
What  would  I  give  if  I  had  the  money! 

Madame  Pepita.  [Producing  a  brand  new  check  hook 
from  her  hag.]  Well,  I'll  sign  a  check.  [Seating  herself  at 
the  table,  she  begins  to  make  out  the  check.] 

Don  Luis.  You  certainly  are  in  luck.  Money  breeds 
money.  While  you  are  about  it,  you  might  make  it  five 
hundred,  so  as  to  provide  for  emergencies. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Rising,  after  writing  the  check.] 
Here  it  is. 


[ACT  11]  MADAME  PEPITA  193 

Don  Luis.  [Solicitously. 1  Allow  me  to  sign  the  re- 
ceipt. 

Madame  Pepita.  Oh,  not  at  all!  Conde,  I  should  be 
offended. 

Don  Luis.  [Convinced.]  As  you  wish.  Now  let  me 
offer  you  a  piece  of  advice.  This  confidence,  which  you 
place  in  me,  deservedly,  extend  to  nobcftiy  else.  Be  on  your 
guard.  You  are  rich,  and  the  world  is  full  of  scoundrels. 
They  will  cheat  you,  rob  you,  they  will  swarm  to  your  mil- 
lions as  flies  to  their  honey.  Pepita,  if  you  are  not  care- 
ful, your  generosity  will  be  taken  advantage  of.  I  myself 
have  abused  it  not  a  little. 

Madame  Pepita.     Oh,  don't  say  that,  Conde ! 

Don  Luis.  Yes,  Pepita,  unavoidably,  perhaps,  but  the 
fact  remains  that  I  have  abused  it.  However,  Providence 
is  repaying  your  kindness  with  interest.  You  are  rich. 
[Suddenly  overcome.]  God  knows  I  rejoice  with  you, 
although  this  unexpected  good  fortune  obliges  me  to  re- 
nounce a  dream — It  is  a  subject,  however,  which  as  a 
gentleman,  I  prefer  not  to  dwell  upon. 

Madame  Pepita.     [Interested.]     A  dream? 

Don  Luis.     [Loftily.]     Alas! 

Madame  Pepita.  But  to  an  old  friend?  Surely  the 
Conde  can  tell  me. 

Don  Luis.  Yes,  after  all,  why  not?  Now  that  it  has 
become  impossible,  what  difference  does  it  make?  Catalina 
and  Augusto — you  must  have  noticed  how  they  have  be- 
come attached  to  each  other? 

Madame  Pepita.  [Surprised  and  delighted.]  The  Viz- 
conde  and  my  daughter? 

Don  Luis.     Then  you  have  noticed  it? 

Madame  Pepita.     No,  I  hadn't  noticed. 

Don  Luis.  Pepita,  you  are  blind.  I  have  suspected  for 
some  time,  but  now  I  am  certain.  He  has  practically  con- 
fessed, under  compulsion,  and  it  is  not  surprising.  Your 
daughter  is  an  original  creature — unusual,  fascinating.     And 


194  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  II] 

Augusto's  temperament  is  so  artistic!     It  was  inevitable. 

Madame  Pepita.  But,  Conde,  pardon  me  .  .  .  The 
Vizconde  ...   I  thought  .    .    .   Is  he  the  sort  of  man? 

Don  Luis.  My  dear,  talk;  it  is  all  put  on.  Disap- 
pointment will  result  in  irregularities.  Men  are  naturally 
that  way,  anyhow.  When  he  realized  that  he  had  become 
the  victim  of  an  impossible  passion,  for  I  may  say  that 
it  never  occurred  to  him  that  I  would  relent — although  you 
are  worthy  people,  your  daughter  has  no  father.  We  are 
what  we  are. 

Madame  Pepita.     [Sobbinff.']     Yes,  we  are. 

Don  Luis.  However,  it  is  too  late  now  for  regrets. 
When  I  found  myself  confronted  with  a  crisis,  I  was  pre- 
pared to  lay  prejudice  aside.  Adversity  has  its  uses.  But 
you  have  inherited  money. 

Madame  Pepita.    Thank  God! 

Don  Luis.  So  it  is  out  of  the  question.  You  are  rich, 
we  are  poor.  People  wcfuld  think  that  we  were  after  your 
money.     Never!     Never  that!     Never! 

Madame  Pepita.    Why,  Conde! 

Don  Luis.  Never!  I  could  never  reconcile  myself  to 
such  a  thing,  at  least  not  without  a  bitter  struggle.  But  my 
heart  aches  for  my  boy.     And  there  is  another  obstacle. 

Madame  Pepita.    Another? 

Don  Luis.  Which  is  a  great  deal  more  serious.  What 
position  does  the  gentleman  on  the  floor  above  occupy  in 
this  establishment? 

Madame  Pepita.  But  I  have  already  explained  to  the 
Conde  that  he  is  giving  Catalina  lessons. 

Don  Luis.  But  he  remains  to  dinner,  he  remains  to 
supper,  he  spends  all  his  time  here  .  .  . 

Madame  Pepita.     He  is  devoted  to  my  little  girl. 

Don  Luis.     He  is  entirely  too  devoted. 

Madame  Pepita.     We  are  awfully  fond  of  him,  Conde. 

Don  Luis.     That  makes  it  worse. 

Madame  Pepita.     He's  so  gentlemanly  and  refined. 

Don  Luis.     No  doubt;  that  is  neither  here  nor  there. 


[ACT  11]  MADAME  PEPITA  195. 

The  question  is  not  what  he  is,  but  what  you  are.  These 
visits  compromise  your  reputation.  Besides,  there  are  too 
many  of  them.  Remember,  you  are  a  young  and  beauti- 
ful woman. 

Madame  Pepita.     Yes,  I'm  thirty-seven. 

Don  Luis.  With  a  past — although  it  was  not  your  fault. 
With  a  past!  It  is  another  phase  which  I  prefer  not  to 
dwell   on. 

Madame  Pepita.     Conde! 

Don  Luis.  Your  daughter  is  grown,  yet  you  persist 
in  permitting  this  gentleman  liberties  which  are  extended 
customarily  only  to  a  husband  or  a  father. 

Madame  Pepita.  Oh,  no!  Nothing  of  the  sort.  Be- 
lieve me,  there  must  be  some  mistake  .  .  . 

Don  Luis.  Morally,  I  decline  to  sanction  the  situation. 
I  had  hoped  that  our  children  might  unite,  but  you  must 
realize  that  a  name  such  as  mine  is  peculiarly  sensitive  to 
the  breath  of  slander.  I  could  never  tolerate  such  a  dubi- 
ous situation — not  that  I  wish  to  criticise  your  conducft 
or  to  dictate  in  any  way.  No,  do  as  you  see  fit.  Never- 
theless, if  this  gentleman  continues  his  visits  to  this  house, 
I  shall  be  obliged  to  discontinue  mine.  Interpret  it  as 
you  may,  I  shall  retire — regretfully,  Pepita,  but  with 
dignity,  I  shall  retire. 

Madame  Pepita.     Conde! 

Don  Luis.  However,  I  must  hurry  to  place  this  money 
in  the  hands  of  my  friend.  Remember,  your  interests  are 
first  with  me.  If  you  need  advice,  come  to  me.  But  as 
it  is,  I  feel  that  I  intrude.  Think  it  over,  think  it  over 
very  carefully.  Do  not  force  me  to  say  good-bye.  Au 
revoirf     [Goes  out.^ 

[Madame  Pepita,  surprised  and  delighted  at  the 
prospect  of  her  daughter  s  becoming  a  countess,  remains 
behind  completely  dazed.] 

Madame  Pepita.  My  daughter?  The  Vizconde? 
Impossible!     No,  it  isn't  either  .  .  .  Catalina!     Catalina! 

Catalina.     [Appearing    in    the    door-way.]     Did    you 


196  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  II] 

call,  mamma?     [Noticing  her  mother's  agitation.]     Don't 
you  feel  well? 

Madame  Fepita.  Yes  ...  no,  I  don't.  Come  here; 
look  at  me.     How  would  you  like  to  be  a  countess? 

Catalina.     I,  a  countess?    Why? 

Madame  Pepita.  Would  you  or  wouldn't  you?  An- 
swer me  at  once! 

Catalina.     How  can  I  tell? 

Madame  Pepita.    Tell  me  the  truth.     Are  you  in  love? 

Catalina.     I?     In  love? 

Madame  Pepita.  Isn't  there  any  one  you'd  like  to 
marry?     Are  you  engaged? 

Catalina.  [Alarmed.]  No,  mamma.  I'm  not  en- 
gaged. 

Madame  Pepita.  But  you  like  some  one,  don't  you? 
There  is  some  one  you're  awfully  fond  of?  Don't  you 
find  him  attractive? 

Catalina.  No,  mamma  .  .  .  not  exactly  attractive. 
What  are  you  talking  about?  Mamma,  I  don't  love  any- 
body. 

[The  bell  rings,  and  Galatea  enters  like  a  whirl- 
wind.] 

Galatea.  Where  is  she?  Ah,  give  me  a  kiss!  An- 
other for  luck.  A  hug,  too,  this  time!  [To  Catalina.] 
And  one  for  you.  [Embracing  mother  and  daughter  in 
turn.]  Congratulations!  You  don't  know  how  delighted 
I  was  to  hear  it.  Think  of  it  ...  a  cold  million!  What? 
Pesetas  ? 

Madame  Pepita.     No,  francs. 

Galatea.  Exchange  is  at  seven  and  a  half.  It  may 
not  seem  much,  but  when  you  figure  it  up  .  .  .  [Considering 
a  moment.]  It  comes  to  fifteen  thousand  duros.  I  wish 
something  like  that  would  happen  my  way.  You  knew 
what  you  were  doing,  all  right,  when  you  married  a  Rus- 
sian. Now  don't  tell  me  it  was  love.  I've  always  stuck 
to  the  home  article,  Madrid  is  good  enough  for  me — al- 
though I  don't  suppose  I  can  teach  you  anything.    Anyway, 


[ACT  II]  MADAME  PEPITA  197 

I'm  tickled  to  death  that  you've  really  got  the  money,  be- 
cause I  don't  suppose  you'll  mind  so  much  now  about 
the  bill.  I've  given  up  hope  of  the  old  man,  and  his  son 
is  no  better;  they  simply  haven't  got  it.  Not  that  I  care 
about  the  boy  ...  I'm  silly  over  him,  but  the  old  chap 
ought  to  pay  somehow.  Does  he  think  a  man  can  make  an 
ass  of  himself  at  his  age  for  nothing? 

Madame  Pepita.  [To  Catalina,  who  is  displaying 
keen  interest.]  Catalina,  see  if  the  girls  are  ready  to  try 
on  your  blouse. 

Galatea.  Yes,  run  along.  Things  will  be  coming  your 
way  pretty  soon.  [Catalina  retires.]  She's  a  lucky  girl! 
God  remembers  her  while  she's  young;  she  won't  have  to 
go  through  what  you  and  me  have.  Look  out  now  that 
some  young  whippersnapper  don't  get  after  her  money. 
The  world's  pretty  rotten,  and  I  don't  know  whether  a 
woman's  worse  off  when  she  has  money  or  when  she  hasn't 
any,  because  what's  the  satisfaction  of  marrying  a  man 
and  then  sitting  around  watching  him  spend  your  money  on 
somebody  else? 

Madame  Pepita.  [Moistening  her  lips.]  There  are 
all  sorts  of  men. 

Galatea.     And  then  a  few.     You've  said  it. 

Madame  Pepita.  It  strikes  me  you're  a  sensible  woman. 
Why  don't  you  break  off  with  the  Vizconde? 

Galatea.     With  Augusto?     Never  in  the  world! 

Madame  Pepita.  You're  not  getting  anywhere  as  it  is, 
it  seems  to  me. 

Galatea.     I  ought  to  know  that  better  than  you  do. 

Madame  Pepita.     I  say! 

Galatea.  I  wouldn't  give  him  up  if  I  starved.  I  could 
lose  everything,  but  I'd  love  him  just  the  same.  I've 
thought  I'd  leave  him,  sometimes,  and  march  myself  off 
to  Paris,  where  a  woman  can  do  something.  Out  of  sight, 
out  of  mind,  don't  you  know?  There's  nothing  in  this  for 
me.     But  when  the  time  comes,  I  can't  tear  myself  away. 

Madame  Pepita.     It  might  be  a  good  idea,  though. 


198  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  II] 

Galatea.  No,  It  simply  can't  be  done.  I'd  feel  as  if 
I  was  committing  murder.  I  love  him  more  all  the  time, 
and  it's  a  shame.     Last  night  I  started  for  the  station — 

Madame  Pepita.     Did  you  miss  the  train? 

Galatea.  No,  he  dropped  around.  Do  you  know  what 
I've  got  in  this  box?  Neckties,  to  make  up.  Whenever  I 
feel  I  can't  stand  him  any  longer,  I  just  run  out  and  buy 
him  a  handsome  present.  [Dubiously.]  Well,  I  suppose 
somebody's  got  to  do  it. 

Carmen.  [Entering. 1  Madame,  the  lady  in  the  Calle 
de  Lista  wants  you  to  hurry  up  those  negligees.  She  says 
she  can't  wait  any  longer. 

Madame  Pepita.  Yes,  better  let  her  have  something 
for  tonight;  I'd  forgotten  all  about  her.  Dear  me,  life  is 
just  one  emergency  after  another! 

Galatea.  Congratulations  again — I  am  going.  I  hear 
you're  retiring  from  business.  If  you're  selling  out  cheap, 
tip  me  off.  I  know  a  good  thing  when  I  see  one.  But 
don't  let  me  detain  you  .  .  . 

[Madame  Pepita  retires.  Galatea^  after  adjust- 
ing her  hat  at  the  mirror,  is  about  to  leavd  by  the  other 
door,  when  AuGUSTO  enters.] 

Galatea.     [Surprised.]     Augusto! 

AuGUSTa     Galatea!     Are  you  here? 

Galatea.     I  was  just  congratulating  Madame  Pepita. 

Augusto.    What  were  you  doing  last  night? 

Galatea.     I  was  out.     [Smiling.] 

Augusto.  But  where  were  you  going?  You  left  no 
word.  I  searched  all  Madrid;  I  was  furious.  Don't  you 
love  me  any  more? 

Galatea.     [Smiling.]     Search  me. 

Augusto.    Yes,  but  how  about  me  ? 

Galatea.     I  didn't  get  very  far. 

Augusto.    WTiat  are  you  doing  tonight? 

Galatea.     [Coyly.]     Is  it  a  date? 

Augusto.  I  must  have  a  moment  first  with  Pepita;  I 
shan't  be  long.     You  might  wait  outside  in  the  motor,  and 


[ACT  II]  MADAME  PEPITA  199 

then  we  can  go  for  that  ring.     I  know  you've  set  your 
heart  on  it — although  I  had  planned  it  as  a  surprise. 

Galatea.     I  have  planned  a  little  surprise  for  you,  too. 

AuGUSTO.     Do  you  mean  it? 

Galatea.  [Handinff  him  the  box  of  neckties.]  Promise 
not  to  look. 

AuGUSTO.     [About  to  open  the  box.]     What  can  it  be? 

Galatea.     Wait  until  you  are  alone. 

AuGUSTO.     [Kissing  her  hand.]     You're  an  angel! 

Galatea.     So  are  you.     Peep  and  see.     [Goes  out.] 

AuGUSTO.  [After  a  discreet,  but  rapid  glance  in  the 
glass.]  What  can  it  be?  [Opens  the  box.]  Cravats! 
[Becoming  sentimental.]  Although  her  taste  may  be 
bizarre,  how  she  loves  me!  [Kissing  a  cravat.]  And  how 
I  love  her!      [Rising  into  transports.] 

[Madame    Pepita    enters,   greatly    pleased  to   dis- 
cover AuGUSTO.] 

Madame  Pepita.  [Entering.]  Vizconde!  .  .  .  Oh,  Viz* 
conde ! 

AuGUSTO.  [Coming  to,  hastily  bundling  up  the  cravats.] 
Pardon  me. 

Madame  Pepita.    Were  you  thinking? 

AuGUSTO.     Thinking?     I  was  trying  not  to  think. 

Madame  Pepita.     [Sympathetically.]     Vizconde! 

AuGUSTO.  I  am  in  desperate  need  of  seven  hundred 
pesetas.  If  you  cannot  let  me  have  them,  I  shall  grow 
violent.  I  know  you  have  a  million,  but  I  do  not  ask  upon 
that  account.  No,  I  should  have  had  to  have  them  anyway. 
Life  has  become  insupportable. 

Madame  Pepita.     Oh,  Vizconde! 

AuGUSTO.  My  heart  is  broken.  What  is  the  good  of  a 
heart  nowadays?  Nobody  seems  to  have  one.  My  heart 
will  be  my  ruin. 

Madame  Pepita.     A  tender  heart  is  a  priceless  treasure. 

AuGUSTO.  But  so  expensive!  Man  cannot  exist  with- 
out woman,  woman  cannot  exist  without  money. 

Madame  Pepita.    Don't  let  that  worry  you,  Vizconde. 


200  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  II] 

All  things  come  to  him  who  waits,  even  when  it  seems 
impossible.  If  you  are  in  trouble,  come  to  me.  I  have 
the  gift  of  sympathy. 

AuGUSTO.  So  I  am  coming  to  you.  Can  you  let  me 
have  the  seven  hundred  at  once?  I  am  in  a  hurry,  or  I 
should  not  ask. 

Madame  Pepita.  Just  a  moment,  while  I  write  the 
check. 

[Madame  Pepita  retires.     Augusto  paces  back  and 
forth,  admiring  himself  in  the  mirror.     Presently  Cata- 
LINA  enters,  approaching  the  table  which  contains  the 
papers,    without     noticing    AuGUSTO.     They     collide 
with  a  violent  shock  while  he  is  still  absorbed  in  the 
contemplation  of  his  person  in  the  glass.^ 
Catalina.     Oh !     Excuse  me. 
Augusto.     Can't  you  see  where  you  are  going? 
Catalina.     Can't     you     see     anything     but     yourself? 
Puppy!      [Making  a  face,   which   he  sees   in   the  mirror.] 
Augusto.     Let  me  give  you  a  piece  of  advice,  young 
lady.     Don't  you  make  faces  at  me. 

Catalina.  If  you  weren't  so  stuck  on  yourself,  you 
wouldn't  have  noticed  it. 

Augusto.  It  wouldn't  do  you  any  harm  to  be  a  little 
stuck  on  yourself. 

Catalina.    Wouldn't  it? 

Augusto.  Do  you  take  out  a  license  for  that  poodle 
effect  with  the  hair? 

Catalina.  When  it  rains,  don't  forget  yours  is  gummed 
down  and  glued. 

Augusto.     Can't  you  let  me  alone? 
Catalina.     Who  are  you,  anyway?     [Seating  herself  at 
the  table,  she  opens  a  drawing  book  in  which  she  proceeds 
to  copy  a  map.] 

[Augusto  stalks  up  and  down  without  speaking. 
They  exchange  glances  of  mutual  contempt  from  time 
to  time,  until  the  entrance  of  Madame  Pepita  with 


[ACT  //]  MADAME  PEPITA  201 

the  check.     Highly  gratified  at  finding  them  together^ 
she  beams  upon  them  with  maternal  tenderness.^ 

Madamb  Pepita.  [Entering.]  The  pooT  dears  are  em- 
barrassed. What  a  picture  they  would  make!  [To 
AuGUSTO.]     The  check,  Vizconde. 

AuGUSTO.  Thanks.  I  shall  never  forget  this — I  feel 
like  another  man  with  this  money.  I  may  have  to  go  to 
work  to  repay  you,  Pepita;  love  is  a  great  leveler.  Ah,  for 
love's  sweet  sake!  I'm  off.  .  .  .  [Rushes  out  without  pay- 
ing any  attention  to  Catalina.] 

Madame  Pepita.  [Deeply  affected.]  For  love's  sweet 
sake!     [Looking  at  her  daughter.]      Poor  Vizconde! 

Alberto.  [Appearing  in  the  doorway.]  May  I  come 
in? 

Madame  Pepita.    What  is  the  matter  with  you? 

Alberto.  No,  it's  the  proprietor,  who  wishes  the 
samples  of  English  point,  and  the  gold  galloons;  they're  re- 
required. 

Madame  Pepita.  God  knows  what's  become  of  them 
by  this  time. 

Alberto.     We  need  them  to  fill  an  order,  just  received. 

Madame  Pepita.  Very  well.  Wait,  and  I'll  have 
them  brought,  if  they  can  be  found.  [RetireSj  leaving 
Catalina  with  Alberto.  Both  smile,  and  Catalina  con- 
tinues her  work.] 

Alberto.     [Shyly.]     Pleasant  day,  isn't  it? 

Catalina.  Yes,  very.  [A  pause,  during  which  she  con- 
tinues working,  while  he  stands  a  little  way  off  without 
removing  his  eyes  from  her.]     Won't  you  sit  down? 

Alberto.  Thanks.  You  are  very  kind.  [Sits  down 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  room.  Another  pause.]  Are  you 
sketching? 

Catalina.  [Smiling  timidly.]  No,  I  don't  know  how 
to  sketch;  I'm  copying  a  map. 

Alberto.  [  Unconscious  of  what  he  is  saying.]  Ah !  A 
map? 


202  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  //] 

Catalina.     It's  the  map  of  Europe. 

[Another  pause.     Catalina  draws  busily;  then  stops 
and  sucks  her  pencil.^ 

Alberto.  [Rising.l  Pardon  .  .  .  please  don't  suck 
your  pencil. 

Catalina.    Eh  ? 

Alberto.  It  may  be  impertinent,  but  it  grates  upon  m. 
nerves. 

Catalina.  [Ready  to  cry.'\  It  does  look  horrid,  doesn't 
it? 

Alberto.  [Effusively.l  No!  You  couldn't  possibly 
do  anything  that  looked  horrid,  because  ..  .  .  because  .  .  . 
well,  of  course  not. 

[Another    pause.    Catalina    draws    industriously 
and  breaks  the  point  of  the  pencil.^ 

Catalina.     Oh,  dear,  I've  broken  the  point! 
[Taking  a  penknife ,  she  hacks  a  fearful  looking  point  after 
great  effort;  then  inspects  it  with  a  sigh.^^ 

Alberto.  [Impetuously,  rising  again.^  Pardon.  That 
is  not  the  way  to  sharpen  a  pencil.  This  is  the  way. 
[Rapidly  and  easily  making  a  perfect  point. "l  It's  very 
simple. 

Catalina.  [Admiringly.^  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  point! 
You  certainly  are  a  handy  man. 

Alberto.    That's  my  business. 

Catalina.  Oh  .  .  .yes!  You're  an  artist.  Do  you 
really  paint  pictures? 

Alberto.     I  should  like  to,  but  I  do  not. 

Catalina.    Why  not? 

Alberto.     I  am  too  poor.    My  mother  is  a  widow. 

Catalina.     [Interrupting,   charmed.'\     Just    like   me! 

Alberto.  [Without  heeding  the  interruption.'^  Only 
I  have  six  young  brothers  and  sisters.  Mother  teaches 
school  in  a  town  not  far  from  here,  and  she  says  that  only 
rich  people  can  afford  to  be  artists,  so  she  wants  me  to  be 
a  clerk  in  "La  Sultana,"  as  the  proprietor  is  my  uncle. 
She  thinks,  when  he  dies,  he  may  leave  the  shop  to  me, 


[ACT  II]  MADAME  PEPITA  203 

since  he's  a  bachelor,  and  then,  naturally  we'll  all  be 
rich,  and  we  can  educate  the  other  children.  However,  I 
see  no  indications  .  .  .  but  of  course  that  does  not  interest 
you. 

Catalina.     [Earnestly.]     Yes,     it     does;    very    much. 

Alberto.  I  am  twenty-two  now,  and  all  I  do  is  to 
carry  bundles  back  and  forth  to  dressmakers  and  other  stupid 
people  who  have  not  the  first  idea  about  art.  Pardon 
me  .  .  . 

Catalina.  No,  you  are  right.  It  would  be  a  great  deal 
better  to  paint  pictures. 

Alberto.  [Enraptured.]  Yes,  wonderful  pictures, 
marvellous  pictures,  such  as  nobody  has  ever  seen  before, 
palpitating  with  sunshine  and  light!  Pictures  of  the  sea, 
the   sky — the  deep   blue   Italian  sky!     Ah,    Italy!     Rome! 

Catalina.     [Inffenuously.]     Rome  is  here  on  the  map. 

Alberto.     Rome  is  in  paradise! 

Catalina.     Is  the  sky  really  so  blue  there? 

Alberto.  So  blue  that  it  is  the  despair  of  those  who 
worship  her. 

Catalina.  Really?  I  hadn't  heard.  .  .  .  Funny,  isn't 
it?     I've  marked  the  name  in  blue  ink. 

Alberto.     Mark  it  in  gold  and  precious  stones. 

Catalina.  Why  don't  you  go  if  you  want  to?  There's 
a  railroad  here,  or  you  can  take  the  boat,  across  the  sea. 

Alberto.  The  boat  and  the  railroad  cost  money,  and  I 
have  no  money. 

Catalina.  Oh,  don't  worry  about  that.  How  much 
do  you  need? — because  we  can  ask  mother  for  it. 

Alberto.     Mother?     No!     That  would  not  be  right. 

Catalina.  Yes,  it  would.  Everybody  asks  her.  Be- 
sides, we're  rich  now.  We've  inherited  a  million,  and  it's 
in  the  bank,  and  all  we  have  to  do  is  sign  a  paper,  and 
they  give  us  all  we  want. 

Alberto.  You  are  kind  and  generous,  but  I  could  never 
accept  it.  Thanks  just  the  same;  I  shall  never  forget  your 
kindness.     I  am  grateful,  really.     Could  I  kiss  your  hand? 


204  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  11] 

Catalina.      [Taken  aback,  hiding  her  hands.]     Oh,  no! 

Alberto.    Why  not? 

Catalina.  Because  .  .  .  because  they're  all  covered 
with   ink. 

Alberto.  [Seizing  her  hands.]  What  of  it?  They 
are  lovely,  they  are  dear  and  sweet,  the  hands  of  a  generous 
woman,  who  understands,  who  sympathizes. 

Catalina.  [After  a  pause.]  So  you  do  think  you  will 
go  to  Rome,  then,  after  all? 

Alberto.  Yes,  I  shall;  I  have  a  plan.  I  work  all  day, 
but  I  study  at  night.  I  attend  a  life  class,  and  when  the 
next  competition  takes  place,  I  shall  enter,  I  shall  win  a 
prize,  and  then  I  shall  go,  no  matter  what  mother  says, 
and  when  I  come  back  I  shall  be  a  great  painter.  I  wish 
you  could  see  the  marvellous  pictures  I  shall  paint  in  Italy. 

Catalina.  [Somewhat  anxiously.]  I  suppose  while 
you  are  there  you  will  paint  some  lovely  ladies? 

Alberto.     Oh,  naturally! 

Catalina.  Like  the  ones  you  were  telling  us  about  .  .  . 
with  lines,  you  know,  and  proportions? 

Alberto.  'When  I  am  famous,  I  intend  to  paint  your 
picture. 

Catalina.     My  picture? 

Alberto.     And  win  a  prize  with  it.     Yes,  indeed! 

Catalina.  But  I  ...  I  ...  At  least  mother  thinks 
so  .  .  .  [Looking  at  herself  in  the  mirror.]  And  >he's 
right,  too.  I  haven't  any  proportions  at  all.  [Almost  re- 
duced to  tears.] 

Alberto.    You  haven't? 

Catalina.  And  I  don't  know  how  to  dress  or  fix  my 
hair.     [Crying.]     You  can  see  for  yourself. 

Alberto.  [Greatly  troubled.]  No,  no,  indeed!  Not 
at  all!  You  are  .  .  .  yes,  you  are,  senorita  .  .  .  Yes,  in- 
deed you  are  .  .  .  [Choking,  almost  ready  to  shed  tears 
himself.]     You,  you  .  .  .  you  have  character! 

Catalina.  [Overcome  with  surprise  and  delight.^  I 
have? 


[ACT  II]  MADAME  PEPITA  205 

[Cristina  enters  with  two  boxes  of  samples,  with- 
out noticing  Alberto.] 
Cristina.     So  you  got  rid  of  it,  did  you? 
Alberto.     [Moving  ajjuay  from  Catalina.]     It? 
Cristina.     Oh,  are  you  still  sticking  around?     Here  are 
your   samples,    and   you   needn't   bring   any  more,   because 
Madame  Pepita  is  retiring  from  business. 
Alberto.     Thank  you  so  much. 

[Cristina  goes  out.  Alberto  is  about  to  resume 
the  conversation,  when  Don  Guillermo  enters,  carry- 
ing several  packages,  one  of  which,  apparently,  contains 
a  bottle  of  champagne.  Alberto  bo^s  and  disap- 
pears.] 
Adiosf 

[Catalina  makes  no  reply.] 
Dqn  Guillermo.  [Stepping  to  one  side  to  aHow 
Alberto  to  pass.]  Adiosf  [Eyeing  him,  curiously.] 
Here  are  the  meringues.  [Handing  the  package  to  Cata- 
lina, who  takes  it  mechanically,  and  remains  standing  with 
it  in  her  hand.]     Who  is  the  young  man? 

Catalina.     [Almost  choking.]     It's  the  boy  from  the 
silk  shop. 

[Don  Guillermo  deposits  the  packages  upon  the 
table.] 
Don  Guillermo,  is  painting  a  nice  business? 

Don  Guillermo.     It  is  more  than  a  business.     It  is  an 
art. 

Catalina.     But  is  it  nice  or  isn't  it? 
Don  Guillermo.    That  depends  upon  hpw  one  paints. 
A  good  painter  has  an  excelleiht  business. 
Catalina.     But  a  bad  painter? 

Don  Guillermo.     A  bad  painter,  my  dear,  cannot  ex- 
actly be  sent  to  jail,  but  he  belongs  there. 

Catalina.     [Alarmed.]     Not    really?     Is    it    awfully 
hard  to  win  the  prix  de  Rome? 

Don  Guillermo.     It  will  be  in  the  next  competition,  as 
I  shall  be  one  of  the  judges.     I  am  chairman  of  the  jury. 


2o6  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  II] 

Catalina.     [Torn  between  hope  and  fear.]     You  are? 

Don  Guiluermo.  Yes..  Why  all  this  sudden  interest 
in  painting? 

Catalina.  Don  Guillermo,  when  a  painter  says  that 
you  have  character,  doe^  that  mean  that  you  are  pretty 
or  the  opposite? 

Don  Guillermo.  Neither.  It  means  that  you  have 
something  characteristic  about  you,  something,  original,  dis- 
tinguishing you  from  other  people.  It  means  that  you  are 
interesting. 

Catalina.     But  is  it  a  compliment,  or  isn't  it? 

Don  Guillermo.     It  is  the  nicest  kind  of  a  compliment. 

Catalina.  One  more  question:  Does  a  woman  have 
to  be  a  countess  because  she's  rich? 

Don  Guillermo.  [Alarmed.]  A  counfess?  What 
makes  you  ask  that? 

Catauna.  Nothing,  only  mother  thought  perhaps  I'd 
better  be  one. 

Don  Guillermo.     [Exercised.]     She  did?     When? 

Catalina,  Just  now,  while  you  were  out,  after  talking 
to  the  Conde. 

Don  Guillfrmo.  Never!  There  must  be  some  mis- 
take. 

Catalina.    Why  must  there? 

Don  Guillermo.  [Greatly  agitated.]  No,  you  don't 
have  to  be  a  countess.  It  is  absurd,  and  I  shall  take  care 
that  you  don't  become  one.     Never! 

Catalina.  What's  the  difference,  anjrway?  Why  fuss 
so  much  about  it? 

Don  Guillermo.  [Striding  up  and  down,  muttering 
to  himself.]  This  is  too  much!  Outrageous!  I  shall 
make  this  my  business. 

Catalina.  [Timidly  and  affectionately.]  Why,  Don 
Guillermo?  Have  I  done  anything  wrong?  Are  you 
angry  with  me?     [Kissing  his  hand.] 

Don  Guillermo.     No,  no.     [With  a  paternal  caress.] 


[ACT  //]  MADAME  PEPITA  207 

I  was  thinking  of  something  else.     [To   himself. 1     Keep 
cool!     Be  calm!     [Aloud.]     This  is  my  business. 

Catalina.  [Affectionately^  hesitating  what  to  do.} 
Before  you  settle  down,  would  you  like  me  to  bring  your 
cap  and  slippers? 

[Madame    Pepita    enters.     She   stops   short    upon 
discovering  Don  Guillermo.] 

Don  Guillermo.  [Pleasantly.}  Well,  I  am  here,  you 
see.     Is  dinner  ready? 

Madame  Pepita.  [Disconcerted;  then  frigidly.}  Din- 
ner? .  .  . 

Don  Guillermo.  [Handing  her  a  small  package.}  I 
brought  you  some  nice  iced  lady-fingers,  and  a  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne to  enliven  the  repast.  We  are  fond  of  them,  so 
we  shall  enjoy  ourselves  in  love  and  good  fellowship. 

Madame  Pepita.     [Visibly  embarrassed.}     Yes  .  .  . 

Don  Guillermo.  [Hands  CataliNa  the  bottle.}  Put 
this  on  the  ice,  too.  Oh,  by  the  way,  here  are  some  potato 
chips  a  la  inglesa.  They  are  one  thing  your  cook  does 
not  do  to  perfection.  [Handing  her  another  package.} 
Crisp  them.  Mind  the  bottle  .  .  .  [Catauna  goes  out. 
To  Madame  Pepita^  making  himself  perfectly  at  home.} 
Well,  this  house  has  become  a  vice  with  me.  Dona 
Pepita.  You  and  Catalina  have  taken  complete  possession 
of  my  heart.  I  never  cared  for  a  family,  but  now  I  could 
not  get  along  without  the  illusion  of  family  life  which  you 
supply.  One  of  these  days  you  will  be  removing  me  ixottk 
the  door  with  a  broom. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Greatly  embarrassed,  steeling  her^ 
self  with  a  determined  effort.}  Don  Guillermo,  that  is  eX' 
actly  what  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about. 

Don  Guillermo.     [Surprised.}     Eh? 

Madame  Pepita.  [Scarcely  able  to  articulate.}  Sinctf 
my  daughter  has  left  the  room  .  .  . 

Don  Guillermo.  [Becoming  serious.}  What  do  you 
mean? 


2o8  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  II] 

Madame  Pepita.  To  begin  with — now  don't  be  of- 
fended, it's  not  as  bad  as  that.  That  is,  it's  unpleasant,  of 
course,  especially  for  me,  Don  Guillermo,  because  .  .  . 
Well,  the  fact  is  you've  been  very  kind  to  us,  and  all 
that,  and  we  can  never  thank  you  for  what  you've  done 
and  are  doing  for  my  daughter's  education.  I  know  it 
can  never  be  paid  for,  not  to  speak  of  your  having  taken 
all  this  trouble,  seeing  that  she's  nobody  and  you  are  who 
you  aref,  and  know  what  you  do  ...  I  don't  say  so  be- 
cause she's  my  daughter,  but  a  princess  wouldn't  be  a  great 
deal  for  you  to  be  giving  lessons  to  .  .  . 

Don  Guillermo.  Yes,  but  come  to  the  point.  What 
do  you  mean  to  say? 

Madame  Pepita.  Well,  Don  Guillermo,  circumstances 
alter,  you  know,  so  what  used  to  be  ...  It  does  seem 
too  bad,  though,  doesn't  it?  It  can't  go  on  forever.  You 
know  what  I  mean. 

Don  Guillermo.  I  certainly  do  not.  Explain  your- 
self. 

Madame  Pepita.  Well,  we're  just  two  unprotected 
women,  and  everybody's  so  ready  to  gossip  about  what  is 
none  of  their  business,  and  to  make  things  worse  than 
they  are,  so  people  might  think  .  .  .  Especially  since  I 
have  a  past,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  which  is  nobody's  business, 
either.  Anyhow,  when  people  were  coming  to  this  house 
because  I  was  a  dressmaker,  it  didn't  make  so  much  dif- 
ference who  they  came  to  see,  but  now  that  I've  retired, 
it  don't  look  respectable  .  .  .  [Swallowing  hard.]  Do 
you  understand  me? 

Don  Guillermo.  I  certainly  do — better  than  I  could 
wish.  [Madame  Pepita  heaves  a  sigh  of  relief.]  You 
think,  or  somebody  thinks  for  you,  that  my  visits  may  com- 
promise your  reputation,  or  your  daughter's? 

Madame  Pepita.  Virgins  and  martyrs,  don't  be  of- 
fended, Don  Guillermo! 

Don  Guillermo.    What  hurts  does  not  give  offense. 

Madame  Pepita.    But — 


[ACT  II]  MADAME  PEPITA  209 

Don  Guillermo.  You  wish  me,  then,  to  confine  my- 
self to  giving  Catalina  lessons? 

Madame  Pepita.  That  won't  be  so  easy,  either,  I'm 
afraid,  now  that  we  are  moving  to  Escorial  to  live. 

Don  Guillermo.  I  have  absolutely  nothing  to  detain 
me  in  Madrid. 

Madame  Pepita.  My  daughter  is  grown,  and  she  will 
probably  marry  before  long,  so,  under  the  circum- 
stances .  .  . 

Don  Guillermo.  Say  no  more;  I  understood  from  the 
beginning.  I  merely  wished  to  hear  it  stated  in  plain  words. 
iYou  want  to  get  rid  of  me. 

Madame  Pepita.  No,  no  indeed!  We  shall  always 
be  glad  to  see  you,  whenever  you  have  time.  Why  not  run 
out  some  Sunday  for  dinner? 

Don  Guillermo.  [After  a  pause.]  I  see  only  one- 
drawback  to  your  plan;  it  won't  work. 

Madame  Pepita.     It  won't? 

Don  Guillermo.  [fVith  dignity  and  restraint.]  1 
shall  not  give  up  Catalina. 

Madame  Pepita.     [Alarmed.]     Don  Guillermo! 

Don  Guillermo.  [Smiling.]  Don't  take  it  so  hard. 
As  you  say,  it  sounds  worse  than  it  is.  [Deeply  moved,  but 
assuming  a  satiric  tone,  in  order  to  conceal  his  emotion.] 
I  have  spent  the  forty-five  years  of  my  life  so  completely 
shut  off  from  the  world,  that  I  have  scarcely  become  ac- 
quainted with  myself.  Now  that  I  look  back,  I  realize 
that  I  have  wasted  my  time.  My  mother  was  wrapped 
up  in  me,  and  watched  over  me  until  a  few  years  ago,  so 
that  I  never  had  occasion  for  another  woman's  love.  I 
grew  up  a  selfish  old  bachelor,  salted  down  in  my  books. 
But  the  strange  part  of  ft  is,  that  while  I  have  never  cared 
for  women,  I  have  always  been  fond  of  children,  no  matter 
how  ugly  or  dirty  they  might  be,  as  they  stumbled  along.  I 
yearn  to  take  the  little  dears  by  the  hand,  to  teach  and  pro- 
tect them.  Love  between  men  and  women  is  a  relation  of 
equals,  it  may  even  imply  inferiority  on  the  part  of  the 


2IO  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  II] 

man.  Perhaps  I  am  proud — it  is  one  of  my  failings;  but 
I  have  never  felt  like  kneeling  before  a  woman,  though  I 
have  often  had  a  desire  to  hold  a  loving  creature  in  my  arms. 
[Don  Guillermo,  in  reality,  has  been  talking  to  himself, 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  floor,  but,  when  he  arrives  at 
this  point  he  suddenly  becomes  aware  of  the  presence  of 
Madame  Pepita^  and  turns  toward  her.'\  I  beg  your 
pardon  .  .  . 

Madame  Pepita.  [Vastly  impressed,  but  without 
understanding  one  wordJ]     Pardon  me. 

Don  Guillermo.  Since  I  have  known  Catalina,  this 
desire  has  become  concrete.  She  is  everything  to  me.  I 
could  not  say  whether  she  is  quick  or  dull;  I  am  not  sure 
whether  she  is  beautiful  or  plain;  I  can  not  even  tell  you 
the  color  of  her  eyes;  but  I  feel  that  she  is  my  daughter, 
much  more  than  she  is  her  father's,  yes  more,  certainly 
much  more  than  she  is  yours. 

Madame  Pepita.     But  it  seems  to  me  .  .  . 

Don  Guillermo.  Much  more.  You  brought  her  into 
the  world,  but  I  have  brought  a  new  world  to  her,  fresher, 
more  striking,  materially  and  spiritually;  than  the  old.  I 
have  rejuvenated  myself  so  as  to  bring  my  mind  down  to 
her  level.  I  talk  like  a  child  so  as  to  companion  with 
her  innocence,  and  I  should  gladly  forego  all  the  joys  of 
this  world  and  the  next,  merely  for  the  pleasure  of  holding 
her  hand  while  she  writes. 

Madame  Pepita.    Why,  Don  Guillermo! 

Don  Guillermo.  [Firmly.l  No,  I  cannot  sur- 
render the  child.  She  requires  protection  which  is  abso- 
lutely disinterested  and  sincere.  Perhaps  you  may  need  it, 
too.  I  know  what  I  am  doing  .  .  ^  although  you  would  be 
entirely  within  your  rights  if  you  put  me  into  the  street. 

Madame  Pepita.     I  shouldn't  think  of  such  a  thing. 

Don  Guillermo.  I  should  not  question  your  decision. 
Your  point  of  view  is  as  proper  as  it  is  absurd.  Legally, 
I  have  rx)  right  to  paternity.  My  position  is  extra  legal, 
yet  it  can  be  recognized  and  reduced  to  legal  status;  and 


[ACT  II]  MADAME  PEPITA  an 

the  sooner  it  is  done,  the  better  for  us  all.  Don't  stare  at 
me — I  am  not  crazy.  Desperate  diseases  demand  desperate 
remedies.  The  pill  is  a  bitter  one,  but  I  shall  swallow 
it.     You  are  a  woman  of  courage  yourself. 

Madame  Pepita.  What  in  heaven's  name  are  you  talk- 
ing about? 

Don  Guillermo.  I  must  be  accepted  in  this  house  a? 
a  husband  and  a  father,  otherwise  I  shall  not  be  free  to  act 
— I  shall  be  hampered.  Why  not  face  the  facts?  We 
must  marry,  and  conform  to  the  conventions  of  society, 
however  inconvenient.     I  am  wiliinig  to  marry  you. 

Madame  Pepita.    You? 

Don  Guillermo.  [Visibly  worried.]  You,  yes  and  I 
...  if  you  are  agreeable. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Speechless  with  amazement.]  You 
and  I? 

Don  Guillermo.  You  and  I.  Pardon  my  abrupt- 
ness— you  never  occurred  to  me  before,  I  mean,  in  the  light 
of  a  wife. 

Madame  Pepita.  But  you  knew  that  I  had  been 
married  ? 

Don  Guillermo.  [More  and  more  disturbed.]  Be 
that  as  it  may,  this  would  be  a  marriage  of  convenience,  pure 
and  simple. 

Madame  Pepita.     Pure  and  simple? 

Don  Guillermo.  A  moral  necessity;  love  does  not 
enter  into  it.  But  we  shall  be  spared  embarrassment.  You 
are  rich,  while  I  am  not  poor,  which  will  be  sufficient  to 
silence  evil  tongues,  although  the  opinion  of  others  has  no 
influence  with  me.  I  have  means  to  support  myself  and 
to  permit  me  to  indulge  in  some  pleasures,  so  money  will 
not  be  lacking.  If  you  will  marry  me,  I  offer  to  defray 
the  household  expenses  like  a  good  husband,  while  you 
dispose  of  your  million  in  any  way  you  think  con- 
venient. I  shall  not  even  take  note  of  its  existence.  I 
am  a  famous  man — my  name  appears  in  the  papers. 
I  have  the  entree  of  the  Palace,  and  a  place  of  honor  at 


212  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  IlJ 

all  Court  ceremonies,  which,  naturally,  you  will  share  with 
me.  You  will  be  entitled  to  a  reserved  seat  at  the  functions 
of  the  Academy;  the  doorkeepers  will  bow  whenever  you 
appear.  You  will  be  the  distinguished  wife  of  an  illustri- 
ous author,  of  an  eminent  critic,  who  is  one  of  the  glories 
of  his  country.  Whenever  a  monument  is  unveiled  or  a 
cornerstone  laid,  you  will  be  among  those  who  remain  for 
refreshments,  and  if  photographs  are  taken  for  La 
Ilustracion  or  Blanco  y  Negro  you  will  be  immortalized 
with  me  in  the  group. 

Madame  Pepita.     But  .  .  .  are  you  in  earnest? 

Don  Guillermo.  [Offended.]  Do  I  look  like  a  man 
who  would  treat  marriage  as  a  joke? 

Madame  Pepita.     If  that  is  the  case  .  .  . 

Don  Guillermo.  Your  fondest  dreams  will  be  real- 
ised. One  of  my  ancestors  crossed  the  sea  with  Hernan 
Cortes,  and  undertook  the  conquest  of  America.  He  proved 
so  adept  at  killing  Indians  that  His  Majesty  conferred  a 
coat  of  arms  upon  him,  which  I  have  somewhere  under 
cobwebs  at  home.  You  are  at  liberty  to  dust  it  off,  since 
you  are  partial  to  nobility,  and  to  display  it  upon  our  note- 
paper,  so  that  people  can  see  who  we  are. 

Madame  Pepita.     [Deeply  affected.]     Don  Guillermo! 

Don  Guillermo.  And  on  the  door  of  our  automobile 
too,  for  we  shall  have  one.  We  shall  get  along  faster, 
it  is  permissible  for  a  man  nowadays  to  blow  his  own  horn. 
[Greatly  excited,  striding  to  and  fro,  until,  finally,  he  comes 
face  to  face  with  Madame  Pepita.]  Well,  what  is  your 
answer  ? 

Madame  Pepita.  It  would  be  very  nice,  of  course. 
Protection  means  so  much  to  a  woman,  especially  when  it's 
a  celebrated  man.     But  Catalina  .  .  . 

Don  Guillermo.  With  due  respect  to  the  Slav 
aristocracy,  Catalina  will  be  far  better  oflE  as  the  step- 
daughter of  a  Spanish  gentleman  than  as  the  natural  daughter 
of  a  Russian  duke.  She  will  be  more  marriageable,  too, 
and  it  is  no  compliment  to  myself. 


[ACT  II]  MADAME  PEPITA  ai3 

Madame  Pepita.  No,  of  course  not.  But  ...  I  must 
say  you  don't  seem  enthusiastic. 

Don  Guillermo.  I  know  what  I  am  doing,  and  that  is 
enough.     You  are  not  responsible. 

Madame  Pepita.     But  how  do  you  suppose  that  I  feel? 

Don  Guillermo.  My  reasons  are  disinterested,  so  for- 
give me ;  I  am  anxious,  too,  to  have  you  satisfied.  I  am  nerv- 
ous, upset  ...  I  appreciate  what  you  are.  Besides,  I  am  a 
gentleman,  who  respects  the  sex.  I  do  not  love  you — I 
shall  not  pretend  that  I  do — but  whatever  I  have  is  yours. 
You  will  never  regret  having  accepted  my  name.  \^A 
pause.]     That  is,  if  you  do  accept  it. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Vastly  moved.]  Certainly.  What 
else  can  I  do?  But  I  wonder  what  my  daughter  will  say. 
I  shall  never  have  the  courage  to  face  her. 

Don  Guillermo.  Leave  that  to  me.  [At  the  door.] 
Catalina!     Catalina! 

Catalina.  [Outside.]  I'm  coming.  [A  pause.  Don 
Guillermo  and  Madame  Pepita  wait,  but  Catalina  does 
not  appear.] 

Madame  Pepita.  [Impatiently.]  Catalina,  are  you 
coming  or  are  you  not? 

Catalina.  [Outside.]  Yes,  I'm  coming.  [After  a 
moment  she  enters,  not  yet  quite  fastened  into  a  flamingly 
audacious  gown,  which  scarcely  permits  her  to  walk.  In 
the  attempt,  she  entangles  herself  in  the  train.]  Did  you 
call? 

Madame  Pepita.  But  .  .  .  What  have  you  been  do- 
ing? 

Catalina.    Dressing. 

Madame  Pepita.  What  in  the  devil's  name  have  you 
got  on? 

Catalina.  It's  the  latest  model.  I  picked  it  out  my- 
self. I'm  seventeen  now,  and  I'm  no  Cinderella  any  more. 
I  have  lines  and  proportions,  and  it's  time  to  show  my  char- 
acter. [Looking  at  herself  in  the  mirror,  turning  half 
way  round  and  tripping  over  her  train  as  she  does  so.] 


214  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  II] 

Madame  Pepita.  [Staring  at  her,  completely  stupe- 
fied.]  You?  In  that  dress?  [With  sudden  inspiration.] 
Praise  God,  it's  the  Vizconde!     A  miracle  of  love  I 

Curtain 


ACT  III 

Garden  of  a  country  house  at  Escorial,  hopelessly  modern 
and  in  bad  taste.  A  fountain  in  the  middle  contains  the 
familiar  group  of  two  children  huddled  together  beneath  an 
umbrella.  This  masterpiece  is  zinc,  painted  to  look  like 
marble.  The  ground  is  neatly  sanded.  At  the  rear,  a 
wall  separates  the  garden  from  that  of  the  adjoining  house. 
Morning  glories  cover  the  wall,  vying  in  luxuriance  with  a 
number  of  fruit  bearing  vines,  while,  above  the  wall,  the  tops 
of  the  trees  of  the  neighboring  garden  may  be  seen.  The 
facade  of  the  house  is  upon  the  left.  The  building  is  an 
absolutely  modern,  two-storied  structure,  boasting  a  flight 
of  steps,  a  glass  baldaquin,  a  balustrade  decorated  with  urns 
which  are  too  large  for  it,  and  a  crystal  ball  which  hangs 
from  the  baldaquin  in  such  a  manner  as  to  reflect  a  view  of 
the  garden.  Half  a  dozen  wicker  chairs  are  scattered  about 
between  the  fountain  and  the  house,  as  well  as  a  small 
wicker  table,  on  which  a  sewing  basket  reposes,  also  of 
wicker  ware. 

The  garden  extends  some  distance  toward  the  right,  the 
street  gate  being  a  little  farther  on. 

The  morning  is  a  bright,  sunny  one. 

When  the  curtain  rises  the  stage  is  empty.  After  a  mo- 
ment, Don  Luis  appears  above  the  wall,  followed  shortly 
by  AuGUSTO.  They  wear  light  outing  f^its  and  broad- 
brimmed  straw  hats,  and  ascend  cautiously  by  means  of  a 
step-ladder  from  the  neighboring  garden.  Don  Luis  car- 
ries a  sharp-pointed  stick  in  one  hand. 

Don  Luis.  [To  Augusto,  who  has  not  yet  appeared.'^ 
Up,  my  son!  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  not 
to  be  able  to  climb  a  wall  at  twenty-five. 

Augusto.     [Appearing  above  the   wall,   in   obvious  ill 

ais 


2i6  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  III] 

humor.^     I   am  able,   but   ascensions  among  wall  flowers 
do  not  appeal  to  me. 

Don  Luis.  You  fail  to  appreciate  the  delights  of  coun* 
try  life.  Give  me  air,  fresh  air!  What  a  morning  for 
filching  one's  neighbor's  figs !  [Extending  the  stick  toward  a 
fig  tree,  whose  top  obtrudes  between  the  wall  and  the 
house.]  Aha!  The  biggest  one — it's  for  you.  Now,  my 
turn  .  .  . 

AuGUSTO.  [Placing  the  fig  on  a  leaf,  which  serves  as 
a  substitute  for  a  plate.]  Why  not  ask  Pepita  for  them? 
She  would  hand  them  over  already  picked.  It  would  be 
more  convenient. 

Don  Luis.  The  pleasures  of  the  chase,  my  boy.  [Re- 
citing.] 

'Tlerida,  sweeter  far 

Than  fruits  of  neighbor's  garden  are!" 

AuGUSTO.     [Impatiently.]     Bah ! 

Don  Luis.  Besides,  by  removing  Pepita's  figs,  we  de- 
prive that  literary  husband  of  hers  of  their  enjoyment.  He 
has  been  eying  them  for  the  past  week,  watching  them  ripen 
to  sweeten  his  lunch. 

AuGUSTO.     You'll  lose  your  balance  and  topple  over. 

Don  Luis.  Don't  worry  about  me.  [Drawing  back  a 
little.]     Some  one  is  coming. 

[Catalina  is  heard  calling  in  the  house.] 

Catalina.     Papa !     Papa ! 

AuGUSTO.     The  daughter!     Down  quick! 

Don  Luis.     Never  retreat  under  fire. 

[Catalina  enters  from  the  house  and  crosses  the 
garden.  She  has  discarded  short  dresses,  and  now 
wears  a  simple,  smart  morning  frock  instead.] 

Catalina.     [Looking   about.]     Papa!     He    isn't   here. 

Don  Luis.     Good  morning,  little  rosebud. 

Catalina.  [Startled.]  Eh?  [Looking  up  at  the 
wall.]     What  are  you  doing  up  there? 

Don   Luis.     [Affably.]     Waiting  for  you. 

Catalina.    Me  ? 


[ACT  III]  MADAME  PEPITA  ai; 

Don  Luis.     To  tell  you  how  charming  you  are. 

Catalina.  Awfully  sweet,  I  am  sure.  You  almost 
scared  me  to  death.     [Goes  off  at  the  left.] 

AuGUSTO.     Ingratiating  creature. 

Don  Luis.     Yes.     Wait  until  you  are  married. 

AuGUSTO.     Still  harping  on  that,  eh? 

Don   Luis.     I  am  more  enthusiastic  than  ever. 

AuGUSTO.  I  could  not  endure  the  sight  of  her,  painted 
and  gilded. 

Don  Luis.  You  place  your  expectations  too  high. 
Don't  be  so  deucedly  romantic.  She  is  pretty,  and  will 
learn  to  wear  clothes,  to  develop  personality.  Suppose 
you  don't  love  her?  After  all,  that  is  not  expected.  Marry 
with  your  eyes  open,  like  other  people. 

AuGUSTO.     But  she  can't  endure  the  sight  of  me,  either. 

Don  Luis.  What  of  it?  You  are  young  and  dress 
well — that  ought  to  satisfy  her.     You  are  noble,  besides. 

AuGUSTO.     I  have  no  money. 

Don  Luis.  After  you  are  married,  you  will  have  as 
much  as  your  wife. 

AuGUSTO.     TJiat    follows,    naturally. 

Don  Luis.  Naturally.  My  son,  we  are  confronted  with 
a  crisis.  We  have  not  a  penny  in  the  world,  and  this 
Academician  is  insufferable.  Pepita  may  become  dis- 
illusioned at  any  moment,  and  the  girl  fall  in  love  with 
another.  We  subsist  as  by  a  miracle.  It  is  absolutely  es- 
sential that  you  propose  today — sacrifice  yourself.  What 
the  devil!  If  I  were  in  your  place,  if  I  were  twenty-five, 
I  should  sacrifice  myself  with  alacrity.  [Losing  his  bal- 
ance in  his  excitement,  he  is  about  to  tumble  into  the  gar- 
den.] 

AuGUSTO.     Be  careful  or  you'll  fall!     Climb  down. 

Don  Luis.  Perhaps  it  would  be  best.  We  are  in  no 
position  to  argue.  Lend  me  a  hand  .  .  .  Oblige  me  this 
time,  and  take  the  stick.  What  do  you  care?  Steady  the 
ladder  .  .  .  [Disappearing.]  Marriage  usually  steadies 
a  man,  anyway. 


2i8  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  III 

[As  soon  as  they  are  out  of  sight,  Catalina  and 
Don  Guillermo  are  heard  upon  the  left.} 

Catalina.  [As  she  becomes  audible.]  I  searched 
through  the  garden  for  you.  How  did  you  manage  to 
sh"p  out? 

Don  Guillermo.  [Smilinff.]  Now  that  you  have 
grown  to  be  a  young  lady,  not  to  say  a  coquette,  you  spend 
all  your  time  dressing.     I  could  not  wait. 

Catalina.  Yes,  I  am  a  young  lady.  How  do  you 
like  my  gown? 

Don  Guillermo.    Very  pretty.    You  look  well  in  it. 

Catalina.  Do  you  think  it's  a  good  thing  for  a  woman 
to  fuss  over  her  looks,  or  don't  you  think  so? 

Don  Guillermo.  If  she  is  clean  and  healthy,  and 
there  is  nothing  false  about  her,  I  see  no  occasion  for  her 
to  fuss. 

Catalina.  [Smoothing  her  hair,  uneasily.]  I  suppose 
you're  going  back  to  Madrid  pretty  soon,  aren't  you? 

Don  Guillermo.  Now  that  the  competition  is  over, 
there  is  nothing  to  take  me  back.  You«r  protege  will  win 
the  prize. 

Catalina.     [Her  heart  in  her  throat.]     Honestly? 

Don  Guillermo.  Yes,  he  is  certain  to  be  a  great  painter 
some  day. 

Catalina.     Then  will  he  have  to  go  to  Rome? 

Don  Guillermo.  Assuredly.  How  are  the  figs,  by  the 
way?  I  wonder  if  they  are  ripe  yet.  They  hang  so  high 
that  we  shall  have  to  climb  the  tree  for  them.  Get  me 
a  basket. 

Catalina.  [Taking  a  basket  from  the  table.]  Put 
some   leaves    in   the   bottom   to   make   it   look   nice. 

[They  retire  behind  the  corner  of  the  house,  un- 
der the  fig  tree.  After  a  brief  interval,  Madame 
Pepita  enters,  breathlessly,  from  the  street,  hatless,  but 
carrying  a  parasol.  Andres^  a  village  lad,  evidently 
impressed  but  lately  into  the  family  service,  follows.] 


[ACT  III]  MADAME  PEPITA  219 

Madame  Pepita.  Ask  Paco  to  help  you  vrnpack  the 
crate. 

Andres.    Yes,  senora. 

Madame  Pepita.  Then  you  can  go  to  the  mason's  and 
tell  the  head  man  to  come  here  at  once.  Oh,  and  be  sure 
you  count  the  bags  of  lime  and  the  bricks  that  the  work- 
men bring  very  carefully,  because  the  number  they  charge 
me  for  is  outrageous.  The  way  I  am  spending  money 
here   is   something  wicked. 

Andres.  The  Conde  says  that  he  don't  need  any  help 
to  count  bricks ;  he  says  he's  managing  your  property  himself, 
and  he  don't  want  me  around  when  he  counts  the  lime, 
either. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Looking  about,  indignant  and  sur- 
prised.] But  where  are  the  benches?  What  have  you 
done  with  the  benches?     Didn't  you  set  them  out? 

Andres.  Just  as  you  said,  but  as  soon  as  you  left  we 
took  them  away  again,   because.  .  .  . 

Madame  Pepita.     Biecause  what? 

Andres.     The  gentleman  told  us  to. 

Madame  Pepita.     My  husband? 

Andres.     Your  husband. 

Madame  Pepita.    Why? 

Andres.  Because  .  .  .  because  he  said  they  were  monu- 
ments of  vulgarity; 

Madame  Pepita.     [With  suppressed  ire.]     Very  well. 

Andres.     Is  there  anything  else? 

Madame  Pepita.  [Venting  her  spleem.]  Only  get  out 
of  my  sight! 

Andres.     Excuse  me.     [Goes  out.] 

Madame  Pepita.  [Pacing  up  and  downs]  Monu- 
ments of  vulgarity!  Monuments  of  vulgarity!  [In  mingled 
rage  and  despair.] 

[Don  Guillermo  enters.] 

Don  Guillermo.  Apparently  we  raise  figs  for  the  neigh- 
bors.    We  are  conducting  a  charitable  institution.     [Dis- 


220  MADAME  PEPITA  lACT  III] 

covering  Madame  Pepita^  and  altering  his  tone.]     Hello! 
I  didn't  see  you. 

Madame  Pepita.  ISweetly.}  Why?  Is  anything 
wrong? 

Don  Guillermo.  Yes,  our  figs  are  gone.  We  have 
lost  six — six  fat  ones,  oozing  honey. 

Madame  Pepita.     The  sparrows  must  have  eaten  them. 

Catalina.  [Entering  behind  Don  Guillermo^  deeply 
dejected.]  No,  mamma,  it  wasn't  the  sparrows;  it  was 
the  Conde  and  his  son.  I  saw  them  on  the  wall  with  a 
long  stick.  They  said  they  were  looking  for  me,  which  I 
knew,  of  course,  was  a  lie. 

Madame  Pepita.  Of  course.  They  are  nothing  if  not 
polite.      [Wishing  to  cut  short  the  conversation.] 

Catalina.  I  thought  you  ought  to  know,  because  they 
are  there  all  the  time.  Yesterday,  they  reached  through 
the  fence  in  the  garden  patch  and  stole  all  our  raspberries, 
and  they  threw  a  stone  into  the  poultry  yard  day  before 
yesterday  and  frightened  the  chickens,  so  one  flew  over 
the  wall  into  their  yard,  and  they  never  sent  it  back,  be- 
cause they  ate  it,  if  you  want  to  -know  what  they  did  with 
it. 

Madame  Pepita.  How  perfectly  silly!  Run  in  and 
set  the  table  for  lunch  as  fast  as  you  can.  We  expect  com- 
pany. 

Catalina.  Again?  Are  they  coming  to  lunch  again 
today  ? 

Madame  Pepita.    Why  not?    Run  in  and  do  as  I  say. 

Catalina.  Yes,  mamma.  [Waving  to  Don  Guil- 
lermo from  the  top  of  the  steps.]  Wait  for  me!  I  won't 
be  long. 

Don  Guillermo.  [Waving  back.]  I'll  be  there  be- 
fore you. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Going  up  to  Don  Guillermo.] 
Don't  you  like  it? 

Don  Guillermo.      Certainly. 

Madame  Pepita.     Do  you  mind  their  coming  to  lunch? 


[ACT  III]  MADAME  PEPITA  221 

Don  Guillermo.  This  is  your  house ;  invite  whom  you 
please — you  are  at  liberty  to  do  so. 

Madame  Pepita.  I  should  be  sorry  if  you  didn't  like 
it,  because  I  always  feel  that  Don  Luis  and  Augustof  are 
members  of  the  family.     However,  if  you  object  .  .  . 

Don  Guillermo.  It  is  a  matter  of  complete  indiffer- 
ence to  me. 

Madame  Pepita.  Don  Luis  has  some  important  busi- 
ness to  talk  over.     They  were  coming  anyhow. 

Don  Guillermo.  Relative  to  the  purchase  of  the  ad- 
joining property  from  one  of  his  friends? 

Madame  Pepita.  [Slightly  embarrassed.']  No,  this  is 
about  some  mines.  The  Conde  felt  terribly  because  that 
investment  turned  out  the  way  it  did.  But  this  is  different. 
It's  a  stock  transaction.  A  big  company  has  been  formed  to 
take  in  everybody.  If  you  care  to  see  a  plan  of  the 
mine  .  .  . 

Don  Guillermo.     No,  thank  you. 

Madame  Pepita.     Aren't  you  interested? 

Don  Guillermo.  No.  I  have  no  desire  to  interfere 
in  the  management  of  your  estate,  nevertheless  I  advise  you 
to  be  cautious.  Receive  this  gentleman  with  the  proper 
warmth,  only  be  careful  to  confine  your  expansions  to  the 
sentimental  sphere,  where  they  are  not  dangerous.  When 
he  and  his  son  install  themselves  as  tenants,  rent  free,  in  the 
very  first  house  that  you  build,  leaving  us  to  stand  around 
and  wait  for  the  paint  to  dry  on  the  second,  I  say  nothing. 
But  don't  let  your  affections  run  away  with  your  princi- 
pal. I  warn  you ;  you  are  heading  straight  for  ruin  in  the 
arms  of  your  friend. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Sentimentally.]  Everything  Don 
Luis  does  seems  wrong  to  you. 

Don  Guillermo.  If  you  are  going  to  cry  over  it,  I 
shall  retire.  Lose  your  money  and  enjoy  yourself.  I  am 
willing. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Verging  toward  tears.]  It  is 
awfully  hard  to  please  everybody. 


222  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  III] 

Don  Guillermo.  You  are  under  no  obligation  to  please 
me. 

Madame  Pepita.  [As  before.]  But  I'm  sure  I'd  like 
to.     [Siffhirtff.]     That  is,  if  such  a  thing  is  possible. 

Don  Guillermo.  [Surprised.]  What  is  the  trouble 
now? 

Madame  Pepita.  [Assuming  a  martyred  air.]  Noth- 
ing. Although  .  .  .  We  had  better  talk  of  something  else. 
[Don  Guillermo  stares  at  her.]  You  had  those  benches 
taken  away  that  I  had  set  out. 

Don  Guillermo.  Oh,  is  that  what  you  have  against 
me?  Yes,  I  did.  Pardon  my  interference  in  your  domestic 
arrangements,  but  for  once  it  was  too  much  for  me.  Arti- 
ficial stone!  Imitation  trees!  I  cannot  abide  the  abomina- 
tions.    They  are  .  .  . 

Madame  Pepita.  [Interrupting.]  Monuments  of  vul- 
garity!    Is  that  it? 

Don  Guillermo.    Worse!     They  are  immoral. 

Madame  Pepita.  Immoral  ?  I  cannot  see  how.  There 
were  no  statues  on  them.  [Staring  at  him  as  if  he  were 
crazy.] 

Don  Guillermo.  What  is  there  immoral  in  a  statue? 
It's  the  deception  of  the  thing. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Failing  to  understand.]  Decep- 
tion? 

Don  Guillermo.  Yes,  benches  which  pretend  to  be 
stone  and  make  believe  to  be  wood,  when  they  have  never 
even  seen  a  forest  or  a  quarry — they  dissemble  their  true 
nature,  they  are  impostures.  This  door,  which  looks  like 
mahogany  when  it  is  miserable  pine,  these  solid  marble 
children  who  at  heart  are  hollow  zinc,  these  bars  and  grat- 
ings which  pass  for  wrought  iron  and  are  the  cheapest  of 
calamine — they  are  impostures,  cheats,  perpetual  lies!  In 
a  word,  they  are  immoral.     Furthermore,  they  are  ugly. 

Madame  Pepita.     But  if  all  our  furniture  has  got  to  be 
genuine,  it  will  cost  a  fortune. 
Don  Guillermo.    Then  go  without;  don't  counterfeit. 


{ACT  III]  MADAME  PEPITA  233 

These  everlasting  frauds,  which  deceive  nobody  but  our- 
selves, create  an  atmosphere  of  deception.  How  do  I  know 
that  a  woman  who  swathes  her  neck  in  cat's  fur  which  is 
dyed  to  look  like  sable,  will  not  as  easily  deceive  her  hus- 
band if  she  has  the  opportunity? 

Madame  Pepita.     Don't  suggest  such  a  thing!     Suppose 
somebody  should  hear? 
[Andres  enters.] 

Andres.  Senora,  the  crate  is  unpacked.  Do  you  want 
us  to  bring  it  in,  or  what  shall  we  do  with  it? 

Madame  Pepita.  Yes,  bring  it  here.  [Andres  retires. 
Madame  Pepita  turns  to  Don  Guillermo.]  I'm  so  glad 
it  came,  just  when  we  were  talking  about  art.  You'll  like 
this  when  you  see  it. 

[Andres  and  a  second  youth  enter.  Between  them, 
they  carry  a  life-sized  figure  of  a  hideous  negro,  seated 
in  a  chair,  smoking  a  cigarette.] 

Andres.     Where  shall  we  put  it? 

Madame  Pepita.     {Ecstatically.]     Set  it  there. 

[The  boys  set  the  negro  carefully  upon  the  ground.] 

Don  Guillermo.  [Clasping  his  head  with  his  hands.] 
Merciful  Powers! 

Madame  Pepita.  [Delighted.]  Do  you  like  it?  [Dis- 
couraged.] You  don't  like  that,  either!  [Sinking  into  a 
chair  and  beginning  to  cry.] 

Don  Guillermo.  But,  Pepita!  Don't  cry,  please!  It's 
not  worth  it,  really. 

Andres.     Shall  we  leave  it  there,  Senora? 

Madame  Pepita.  I  don't  know.  Anywhere.  Throw 
it  down  the  well! 

Don  Guillermo.  No,  stand  it  in  the  hall.  It  was 
intended  for  the  hall,  was  it  not? 

Madame  Pepita.  [Through  her  tears.]  Yes,  for  the 
hall. 

Don  Guillermo.  Put  it  where  it  belongs.  [The  boys 
mount  the  steps  and  stagger  into  the  house.]  Don't  feel  so 
badly.     [Relenting.]     It's  too  awful!     If  you  like  it,  I  am 


224  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  III] 

satisfied;  only  don't  cry.  I  must  go  to  the  city — on  busi- 
ness— I  may  have  time  yet  to  run  to  the  station  and  catch 
the  express.  Forgive  me  .  .  .  Catalina!  What  has  be- 
come of  Catalina? 

Catalina.     [Appearing    at    the    window.]     Did    you 
call? 

Don  Guillermo.     What  do  you  say  to  a  stroll  to  the 
station  ? 

Catalina.     I'll  be  ready  in  a  minute;  I've  finished  the 
table.     Wait  under  the  pine  tree. 

Don  Guillermo.     Bring  your  hat  along.     It's  growing 
pretty  hot, 

[Don  Guillermo  withdraws;  Catalina  waves  to 
him  from  the  window.  As  soon  as  he  has  disappeared, 
her  mother  calls  her.] 

Madame  Pepita.     Catalina! 

Catalina.     Yes,  mamma. 

Madame  Pepita.     Come  here;  I  want  to  speak  to  you. 
[Catalina  leaves  the  window,  descends  the  steps, 
and  goes  up  to  her  mother.] 

Catalina.     What  is  it? 

Madame  Pepita.     Sit  down. 

Catalina.     What  is  the  matter  with  you?    You're  all 
excited. 

Madame  Pepita.     No,  my  dear;  I  have  been  discussing 
art  with  your  father. 

Catalina.     I  knew  it  was  something  awful. 

Madame  Pepita.     Sometimes,  my  dear,  a  woman  does 
feel  sentimental. 

Catalina.     [Impressed.]     Yes,  mamma. 

Madame  Pepita.     And,  my  dear,  it  is  my  du-ty  to  warn 
you.     We  have  invited  to  lunch — 

Catalina.     The  Conde  and  his  son. 

Madame  Pepita.     But  I  didn't  tell  you  that  they're  not 
coming  merely  for  lunch. 

Catalina.     Aren't  they?    What  else  do  they  want? 

Madame  Pepita.     They,  or  rather  we.  expect  you  and 


[ACT  III]  MADAME  PEPITA  225 

Augusto  to  arrive  at  an  understanding.  We  are  anxious  to 
have  it  settled. 

Catalina.     Settled  ? 

Madame  Pepita.     Yes,  your  engagement. 

Catalina.     My  engagement? 

Madame  Pepita.  Don't  be  silly.  You  know  what  I 
mean,  though  you're  so  coy  about  it.  Augusto — I  mean  the 
Vizconde — is  willing  to  marry  you.     It's  an  honor. 

Catalina.     No  ! 

Madame  Pepita.    Yes.     He  has  consented. 

Catalina.     Never! 

Madame  Pepita.     Never? 

Catalina.     I  don't  love  him. 

Madame  Pepita.  How  do  you  know  whether  you  love 
him  or  not,  when  you've  never  been  in  love?  You  will 
find  out  after  you're  married. 

Catalina.     I  shall  never  love  him. 

Madame  Pepita.  I  don't  see  why.  He  is  young  and 
handsome,  and  dresses  well. 

Catalina.     He  frizzles  his  moustache  with  an  iron. 

Madame  Pepita.     To  make  it  curl. 

Catalina.  A  man's  moustache  oughtn't  to  curl  unless 
it  curls  naturally.  It  must  be  geniune.  Truth  is  more 
important  than  anything  else  in  the  world. 

Madame  Pepita.    You,  too! 

Catalina,     Yes,  me  too,  mamma. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Rising  nervously.]  This  a  pretty 
state  of  affairs.  [Seizing  Catalina  and  shaking  her,  greatly 
incensed.]  Catalina,  this  is  shocking  nonsense,  the  chatter 
of  a  silly  little  parrot!  You  are  going  to  marry  Augusto 
because  it's  the  best  thing  you  can  do.  Besides,  he's  a  fine 
fellow,  and  he's  crazy  about  you.  You'll  be  a  countess, 
then,  which  has  been  the  dream  of  my  life.  I  only  wish 
I  was  in  your  place.  He  is  good  enough  for  you,  anyway, 
considering  who  you  are. 

Catalina.  I'm  my  father's  daughter — Don  Guillermo's 
daughter,  remember  that. 


226  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  III] 

Madame  Pepita.     Don't  you  come  that  on  me. 

Catalina.  But,  mamma,  he  loves  me  and  he  is  kind  to 
me,  and  I  love  him.  If  j'ou  insist  on  my  marrying,  I'll  run 
and  tell  him,  and  he'll  protect  me,  and  you'll  find  out  then 
whether  or  not  I  marry. 

Madame  Pepita.  You'll  marry  because  I  tell  you  to — 
and  be  very  careful  hovv^  you  say  I  will  and  I  won't  to 
me.  You  silly  girl,  do  you  know  what  you  are  doing? 
Making  faces  at  your  happiness!  I  suppose  you've  got  some 
snip  of  a  prince  tucked  away  up  your  sleeve? 

Catalina.  No,  I  haven't  got  any  prince  there,  and  you 
needn't  think  you  can  work  off  any  Vizcondes  on  me,  either. 

Madame  Pepita.  Wait !  You  forget  you're  unmarried. 
What  good  is  an  unmarried  woman,  anyhow?  That's  the 
reason  she's  unmarried.  Your  happiness  is  at  stake,  and  some 
day  you'll  thank  me  for  it.  A  mother's  duty  is  to  protect 
her  children. 

Catalina.  Yes,  and  so  is  father's!  I'm  going  to  tell 
father. 

Madame  Pepita.     Oh,  let  up  on  father! 

Catalina,     Let  up  on  father? 

Madame  Pepita.  Yes,  your  mother  is  talking  now,  and 
your  mother  comes  before  everybody  else  in  the  world.  It 
would  be  nice,  wouldn't  it,  if  a  man  who  has  known  you 
only  two  or  three  weeks  .  .  . 

Catalina.  I  won't  have  you  talk  like  that  about  father ! 
[Beginning  to  cry.]     You  don't  love  him! 

Madame  Pepita.  [Loftily.]  Whether  I  love  him  or 
not,  is  none  of  your  business. 

[Don  Luis  and  Augusto  appear  at  the  left.] 

Don  Luis.     Do  we  intrude? 

Madame  Pepita.  [Composing  herself.]  Oh,  no! 
Come  in!  Come  right  in!  [To  Catalina.]  You  stay 
here  with  me. 

Catalina.     But  father? 

Madame  Pepita.  To  hell  with  father!  Send  word  out 
you're  engaged. 


[ACT  III]  MADAME  PEPITA  227 

Don  Luis.  We  anticipate,  perhaps,  but  I  am  impatient 
to  conclude  that  transaction. 

Madame  Pepita.     Ah,  yes!     About  the  mines? 
Don   Luis.     Yes.     [Glancing  significantly   toward  Au- 
GUSTO  and  Catalina.]     About  the  mines.     We  might  look 
over  the  plans  in  the  house,  where  it  will  be  more  con- 
venient. 

Madame  Pepita.  No  doubt  something  of  the  sort 
would  be  best. 

Don  Luis.  Meanwhile  the  young  people  may  enjoy 
themselves  in  the  garden — until  luncheon^ 

Madame  Pepita.  Yes,  it  will  not  be  ready  for  a  long 
time. 

Catalina.  [Pulling  at  her  mother  s  skirts.]  No, 
mamma. 

Madame  Pepita.     Don't  be  so  damm  Gothic!     [To  the 
CoNDE.]     After  you. 
Don  Luis.     Precede  me. 

[They  mount  the  steps  and  disappear  into  the  house, 
closing  the  door  behind  them.     AuGUSTO  and  Cata- 
lina remain  alone.     They  look  at  each  other,  hut  say 
nothing.     After  an  interminable  silence,  AuGUSTO  ven- 
tures a  remark  as  gracefully  as  the  state  of  his  feelings 
will  allow.] 
AuGUSTO.     Would  you  care  to  take  a  little  walk? 
Catalina.    You  don't  call  it  walking,  do  you,  in  the 
garden  ? 

AuGUSTO.      I   do. 

Catalina.     I  do  not. 

AuGUSTO.    You  do  not? 

Catalina.  Walking  is  climbing  mountains,  and  scram- 
bling over  rocks,  and  crashing  through  the  underbrush.  \ 
adore  walking. 

AuGUSTO.     I  do  not. 

Catalina.    Oh!     Don't  you   like  mountains? 

AuGUSTO.     When  I  hunt. 

Catalina.     Do  you  like  to  hunt? 


228  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  III] 

AUGUSTO.     I  do. 

Catalina.     I  do  not. 

AuGUSTO.    You  do  not? 

Catalina.  It's  silly  for  a  grown  man  to  spend  all  day 
killing  poor  little  animals,  who  have  never  done  him  any 
harm.  It  would  do  you  a  great  deal  more  good  to  stay 
home  and  read  a  book. 

AuGUSTO.     Do  you  like  to  read  books? 

Catalina.     Very  much.     Do  you? 

AuGUSTO.     I   do  not. 

Catalina.     [Aggressively.l     Well,  what  do  you  like? 

AuGUSTO.     I  like  horses  and  dogs. 

Catalina.  Oh,  I  thinks  dogs  are  disgusting!  They 
jump  all  over  you,  and  upset  things,  and  eat  everything 
there  is  in  the  house.  Besides,  they  have  fleas.  I  would 
rather  have  a  canary;  it's  pretty  and  it  sings. 

AuGUSTO.  You  don't  call  that  singing — shrilling  be- 
cause it  is  shut  up  in  a  cage?  I  hate  anything  that's  in  a 
cage.  Canaries  are  in  the  same  class  with  yellow  novels 
and  romantic  girls. 

Catalina.  [Deliffhted.]  Don't  you  like  romantic 
girls? 

AuGUSTO.     I  don't  like  any  kind  of  girls. 

Catalina.     [Enchanted.]     You  do  not? 

AuGUSTO.  I  like  women  who  have  spirit  and  nerve, 
blood  and  fire,  who  know  something,  and  are  not  ashamed 
to  show  it.  They  may  laugh  at  a  man,  and  have  no  use 
for  him  twenty-three  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four,  but  in 
the  one  hour  that  they  do,  they  make  him  live,  or  they  take 
his  life  away.     I  forgot  I  was  talking  to  you.   .    .    . 

Catalina.  Oh,  don't  stop  on  my  account.  I  suppose 
you  mean  something  superior?  Well,  I  am  afraid  I'm 
dreadfully  romantic,  and  I  haven't  got  much  fire  in  my 
blood — not  a  bit  of  it,  in  fact,  although  sometimes  I  do 
get  hot  when  I  think  .  .  . 

AuGUSTO.     Of   a  man?     Is  it  some  man  you   already 


[ACT  III]  MADAME  PEPITA  229 

know,  or  one  you  would  like  to  know?  Tell  me,  what 
8ort  of  man  would  you  like  for  your  husband? 

Catalina.  Now,  don't  be  offended.  I  would  like  a 
real  man,  not  as  elegant  as  you  are,  but  one  who  seems  like 
a  man,  and  who  knows  something — about  art,  for  instance, 
and  is  willing  to  travel — to  Rome,  if  necessary,  and  be- 
come famous.  He  might  be  a  painter.  I  don't  care 
whether  he  is  noble  or  not;  he  might  belong  to  the  people 
— no,  not  to  the  people,  either,  but  his  mother  might  be 
a  school  teacher — 

AuGUSTO.  [Seizinff  both  her  hands.]  Really?  You 
are  an  angel! 

Catalina.    What  ? 

AuGUSTO.  [Transported.]  An  archangel,  an  extraor- 
dinary woman! 

Catalina.  [More  and  more  alarmed.]  Oh!  It  is 
true,  then.     You  do  want  to  marry  me? 

AuGUSTO.     No,  positively  I  do  not. 

Catalina.     Then  why  do  you  say  all  these  things? 

AuGUSTO.  That's  it  exactly — ^because  I  don't  want  to 
marry  you,  because  you  don't  love  me,  because  you  love 
somebody  else. 

Catalina.     I  do  not. 

AuGUSTO.  Yes,  you  do,  though  you  may  not  know  it. 
I  have  no  idea  who  he  is — apparently  a  painter  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort,  thank  God!  Now  don't  be  offended; 
I  don't  love  you  either,  although  I  think  better  of  you 
than  I  did,  and  I  am  grateful  beyond  measure.  Thank 
you  again,  oh,  thank  you!  Thank  you!  [Kissing  her 
hands.] 

Catalina.  [Allowing  him  to  kiss  her  hands,  so  com- 
pletely indifferent  that  she  attaches  no  importance  to  it.] 
It  certainly  is  a  great  relief  to  us  both.  But  wait  till 
mamma  hears! 

AuGUSTO.     [Distressed.]     And   papa! 

Catalina.  [Tapping  the  ground  with  one  foot.]  She 
says  I  ought  to  take  you  because  you  are  a  vizconde. 


230  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  III] 

AuGUSTO.  Yes,  and  then,  you  know  you  are  rich.  But 
I'd  rather  throw  in  my  title  for  nothing. 

Catalina.  And  you  could  have  all  my  money.  How- 
ever, that  is  impossible. 

AuGUSTO.     I   fear  so.     What  shall  we  do? 

Catalina.     Think  of  something;  you're  a  man. 

AuGUSTO.     I  ?     I  can't  think. 

Catalina.  [Having  an  inspiration.]  No,  we  had 
better  ask  father.  He's  not  awfully  enthusiastic  about  it, 
either.  Come  and  find  him — or,  perhaps,  I  had  better  go 
alone;  you  can  slip  out  by  the  orchard  gate.  Mother  and 
Don  Luis  will  believe,  then,  that  we  are  still  together.  How 
do  you  like  that? 

AuGUSTO.  Perfect!  Hurry  and  separate  and  fool  them 
both. 

Catalina.  Hurry,  while  I  get  my  hat.  [Augusto 
runs  out  behind  the  house.  As  Catalina  reaches  the  steps, 
she  notices  her  mother's  parasol,  which  leans  against  a  chair, 
where  it  has  been  forgotten.]  This  parasol  will  do. 
What's  the  difference?  [An  automobile  horn  is  heard.] 
An  automobile!  [Distressed.]  Who  can  it  be?  [Hesi- 
tating.] Oh,  well!  Never  mind.  [As  she  is  disappear- 
ing, Galatea  enters.]  Oh,  Madame  Galatea!  [Going  up 
to  her  pleasantly.]      How  do  you  do? 

Galatea.     [Frigidly.]     How  do  you  do? 

Catalina.  [After  looking  at  her.]  Something  is  the 
matter — Mother  is  inside.     Won't  you  step  in? 

Galatea.     Thanks.     I've  business  with  you,  first. 

Catalina.     With  me?    Won't  you  sit  down? 

Galatea.  [Walking  nervously  to  and  fro,  looking 
about  in  all  directions.]     I'm  easier  as  I  am. 

Catalina.  [Curiously.]  Perhaps  you  have  lost 
something? 

Galatea.  [Brusquely.]  Yes,  and  you  have  picked  it 
up. 

Catalina.    I  ? 


[ACT  III]  MADAME  PEPITA  231 

Galatea.  My  dear,  think  it  over,  or  all  these  sweet 
dreams  of  yours  may  turn  out  to  be  nightmares. 

Catalina.     [Amazed.}     Nightmares? 

Galatea.  Depend  upon  it,  as  long  as  I'm  alive,  that 
man  is  never  going  to  marry  anybody  but  me. 

Catauna.     [Astonished  and  shocked.}     What  man? 

Galatea.  So  you  want  me  to  stage  this  little  scene, 
do  you? 

Catalina.  I?  What  scene?  Unless  you  make  it  a 
good  deal  plainer,  I  shan't  understand  one  word  you  say. 

Galatea.     You  want  me  to  make  it  plainer,  eh? 

Catalina.     Yes,  make  it  plainer. 

Galatea.  Well,  is  this  plain  enough?  You  think 
you're  going  to  be  a  damn  countess. 

Catalina.     Why,  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing! 

Galatea.  What  are  you  doing  with  Augusto,  any- 
way? 

Catalina.  Oh!  So  it's  Augusto,  is  it?  Is  that  what 
you're  so  mad  about?     Do  you  want  to  marry  him? 

Galatea.     That's  my  business. 

Catalina.  I  think  so,  too.  Well,  if  you  love  him,  and 
he  loves  you,  go  ahead  and  marry  him.  Count  me  out 
of  it. 

Galatea.     Don't  you  love  him? 

Catalina.  No,  and  I  never  did.  I  can't  stand  a  man 
who  parts  his  hair  with  a  ruler. 

Galatea.     [Offended.}     Parts  it  with  a  ruler? 

Catalina.  Yes,  that's  what  he  does.  And  he  wears 
corsets  and  rouges — although  you  do  yourself,  so  you've 
nothing  on  him  there,  as  far  as  that  goes. 

Galatea.  [Uncertain  whether  to  be  pleased  or  not.] 
But  there  must  be  some  mistake.  I  thought — I  heard  that 
you  .  .  . 

Catalina.  Perhaps.  I  heard  it  myself,  but  you  can't 
always  believe  what  you  hear. 

Galatea.     No,  but  when  you're  fond  of  a  man  .  .  . 


232  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  III] 

Catalina.     Are  you  fond  of  him,  honestly? 

Galatea.     I'm  fond  of  him  all  right. 

Catalina.     It  is  hard  for  me  to  believe  it. 

Galatea.  However,  I  understand  your  position.  A 
woman  cannot  get  along  without  love.  She  may  suffer, 
she  may  wish  she  was  dead,  and  Worry  until  she  has  not 
one  hair  left  on  the  top  of  her  head,  but,  after  all,  when 
you  come  down  to  it,  love  is  love.  There's  nothing  else 
like  it. 

Catalina.  [Absorbed.}  I  feel  as  if  you  might  be  a 
great  help  to  me.     Have  you  been  engaged  very  long? 

Galatea.     [Depressed.]     I've  never  been  engaged. 

Catalina.     Never  engaged? 

Galatea.  And  it's  too  late  now.  I  was  starving,  and 
needed  the  money. 

Catalina.     Do  you  really  mean  you  were  hungry? 

Galatea.  [Smiling  at  her  innocence.]  Oh,  that  was 
a  long  time  ago.  But  I  could  starve  all  my  life  for  that 
man.  You're  a  lucky  girl!  Some  day  you  will  have  a 
sweetheart  yourself,  and  be  engaged.  You'll  understand, 
then,  what  love  means. 

Catalina.     [Earnestly.]     I  hope  I  will. 

Galatea.  [Preparing  to  leave.]  We  all  go  through 
it.     However,  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  worry. 

Catalina.  Are  you  in  a  hurry?  Won't  you  wait  for 
Augusto  ? 

Galatea.  No,  I  guess  he's  safe  with  you.  But  re- 
member! .  .  .   [Goes  out.] 

Catalina.  Don't  forget,  yourself.  [Puzzled,  watching 
Galatea  as  she  disappears.]  She's  in  love.  Just  imagine 
it!  Ah,  before  you  can  be  in  love,  you  have  to  find  some- 
body who  is  willing! 

[Alberto  enters.  He  is  dressed  as  an  artist,  by 
which  it  is  to  be  understood  that  he  wears  a  flowing  tie 
and  broad-brimmed  hat.] 

Alberto.     Good  morning.     [Advancing.] 

Catalina.     [Startled  and  happy.]     Oh! 


[ACT  III]  MADAME  PEPITA  233 

Alberto.     Don't  be  afraid.     [Disconcerted  himself."] 

Catalina.     But  ...  I    didn't   know    you   were    there. 

Alberto.  [Dreadfully  embarrassed,  but  making  an 
effort  to  maintain  his  dignity.]  Yes  .  .  .  that  is  ...  I 
was  in  the  street,  looking  for  you. 

Catalina.     For  me? 

Alberto.  [A pologetically .]  No,  not  for  you — for  Don 
Guillermo.     I  wish  to  thank  him.     Don't  you  know? 

Catalina.    Ah,  yes!    Of  course! 

Alberto.  The  gate  was  open,  so  .  .  .  But  I  fright- 
ened you? 

Catalina.     [Hesitating.]     Then  you  did  win  the  prize? 

Alberto.     Yes,  thanks  to  Senor  de  Armendariz. 

Catalina.  That  wasn't  the  only  reason.  The  picture 
had  to  be  good,  too. 

Alberto.  It  wasn't  bad,  although  they  said  the  subject 
was  a  little  worn  out. 

Catalina.     Jacob  wrestling  with  the  angel. 

Alberto.  Yes,  I  should  never  have  won  the  prize  on 
that.  The  other  pictures  were  good,  too — there  were  two 
or  three  good  ones;  but  Don  Guillermo  preferred  mine, 
because  .  .  . 

Catalina.     Because  why? 

Alberto.  Because  .  .  .  because  he  thought  the  angel 
looked  like  you. 

Catalina.     [Overcome.]     The  angel? 

Alberto.  [Apologizing.]  Yes,  but  you  mustn't  think 
that  I  did  it  on  purpose. 

Catalina.     [Disappointed.]     Oh,   didn't  you? 

Alberto.  No,  I  just  had  you  in  mind.  I  seemed  to 
see  you,  that  was  all.  Your  head  is  so  characteristic — and 
your  curls,  and  your  wonderful  eyes!  After  I  had  seen 
you,  and  we  had  talked  a  little — it  came  to  me  as  a  revela- 
tion, just  like  that. 

Catalina.  [After  a  pause.]  I  suppose  you  are  aw- 
fully anxious  to  go  to  Rome,  aren't  you? 

Alberto.    Awfully. 


234  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  HI] 

Catalina.  [After  another  pause.']  You  must  be 
very  happy. 

Alberto.  Yes;  that  is,  I  should  be,  very — because  I 
have  done  what  I  set  out  to  do.  It  is  my  career.  Italy 
is   my  dream! 

Catalina.     \_Sadly.']     I  know. 

Alberto.  But,  then,  I  am  sorry  to  go.  Honestly,  I 
should  rather  not.     [Manifestly  embarrassed.] 

Catalina.    Why  not? 

Alberto.  [Repenting  his  indiscretion,  before  it  is  too 
late.]  Because  .  .  .  because  I  am  awfully  fond  of 
Madrid. 

Catalina.     Oh!    Are  you? 

Alberto.     However  .  .  . 

Catalina.     [Hopefully.]     However? 

Alberto.  However,  I  am  fond  of  it,  and  so  are  you, 
although  you  don't  live  in  Madrid  any  more. 

Catalina.     No,  I  live  in  the  country. 

Alberto.     Yes,  in  the  country! 

Catalina.    Are  you  fond  of  the  country? 

Alberto.         I  am  fonder  of  it  than  I  am  of  Madrid. 

Catalina.     Are  you?    Why? 

Alberto.  Because  .  .  .  [Catching  himself.]  There  are 
so  many  trees  in  the  country. 

Catalina.     Are  you  fond  of  trees?  , 

Alberto.     Very — if  you  are. 

Catalina.  [Touched.]  Oh,  yes  indeed!  [Restrain- 
ing herself.]     If  you  are. 

Alberto.  I  am  fond  of  everything  that  you  are,  be- 
cause .  .  .  because  you  have  such  excellent  taste. 

Catalina.     I?     What  makes  you  think  so? 

Alberto.  Because  .  .  .  [Throwing  restraint  to  the 
winds.]     Because  you  have  such  beautiful  eyes! 

Catalina.     [Overwhelmed.]     Have  I? 

Alberto.  [Embarrassed.]  No,  excuse  me.  Yes,  you 
have.     They  are  blue. 

Catalina.    Do  you  like  blue  eyes? 


[ACT  III]  MADAME  PEPITA  235 

Alberto.     Immensely. 

Catalina.  [Coquettishly-I  But  my  eyes  are  not 
blue.     That  is,  they  are  not  entirely  blue. 

Alberto.     No,  not  entirely. 

Catalina.     Can  you  see  any  green  in  them? 

Alberto.  Yes,  green — decidedly;  but  it  makes  no  dif- 
ference to  me. 

Catalina.     Of  course  it  makes  no  difEerence  to  you. 

Alberto.     [Fervently.]     Absolutely  not. 

Catalina.  What  do  you  care  what  color  my  eyes  are, 
anyway  ? 

Alberto.     That  is  quite  different. 

Catalina.     Is  it? 

Alberto.  Yes.  [Hopelessly  embarrassed.]  If  you 
were  nothing  to  me,  of  course  I  shouldn't  care.  Pardon 
my  saying  so,  but  you  can  never  be  nothing  to  me.  You 
could  not  be  indifferent. 

Catalina.     Oh!     Couldn't  I? 

Alberto.  [Impetuously.]  Never!  I  must  f^ll  you — 
I  know  it's  not  right,  but  I  am  very  unhappy.  You  are 
rich  and  I  am  poor — only  a  poor  artist.  All  1  have  is 
my  future — a  hope  of  glory,  merely  a  hope,  that  is  all. 
It  is  little  enough  to  offer  a  woman  in  exchange  for  happi- 
ness. 

Catalina.  [Wishing  to  appear  oracular.]  It  may 
seem  little  enough  to  you,  but  it's  an  awful  lot  right  now 
to  me. 

Alberto.     No  ! 

Catalina.  Because  I  have  money,  you  think  I  must 
be  hard  to  please,  and  want  the  earth,  besides.  Men  always 
think  they  know  so  much,  they  imagine  that  they  are  the 
only  ones  who  have  ideals,  or  can  dream  about  the  future, 
and  things  that  can  never  be.  Well,  let  me  tell  you, 
women  do  it,  too.  Though  they  may  be  ignorant,  they 
are  just  as  anxious  to  go  to  Rome  as  men  are.  [She  be- 
gins to  cry.] 

Alberto.     [Deeply  moved.]     Catalina! 


236  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  III] 

Catalina.     [Without  raising  her  eyes.]     Here  am  I. 

Alberto.     [Drawing  nearer.]     Catalina! 

Catalina.  [Discovering  Don  Guillermo,  who  enters.] 
Papa! 

Don  Guillermo.  [Without  noticing  Alberto.] 
Hello!     Are  you  here?     I  was  waiting  for  you. 

Catalina.  [With  a  tremendous  effort.]  Alberto  is 
here,  papa. 

Don  Guillermo.     Alberto? 

Alberto.  [Advancing.]  Alberto  Jimenez  y  Vergara, 
sir,  at  your  service. 

Don  Guillermo.  [Slightly  surprised.]  Ah,  yes!  I 
am  delighted  .  .  . 

Alberto.     I  have  come  to  thank  you  for  .  .  .  for  .  .  . 

Catalina.  [Interrupting.]  For  his  prize.  [Don 
Guillermo  makes  a  deprecatory  gesture,  indicating  that  it 
is  not  to  be  mentioned.]  And  while  we  are  about  it,  I 
thought  I  would  tell  you  that  he  has  asked  me  to  go  to  Rome 
with  him. 

Don  Guillermo.  To  Rome?  With  him?  Impos- 
sible ! 

Catalina.  [Blushing.]  We  can  get  married  before 
we  go. 

Don  Guillermo.  Outrageous!!  [To  Alberto,  an- 
grily.]    I  demand  an  explanation,  sir. 

Catalina.     It  was  all  my  fault. 

Don  Guillermo.    Your  fault? 

Catalina.  Yes,  he  was  poor,  so  he  was  afraid  to  ask 
me,  because  I  am  rich,  so  I  had  to  ask  him.  It's  the 
same  thing,   anyway.     I   love  him,   and   he  loves  me. 

Don  Guillermo.     This  is  too  preposterous. 

Catalina.  And  if  you  won't  let  us  marry,  I  am  go- 
ing to  die,  or  shut  myself  up  in  a  convent. 

[While  Don  Guillermo  and  Catalina  are  speak- 
ing, Don  Luis  and  Madame  Pepita  enter  from  the 
house.  Madame  Pepita  listens  in  amazement,  and 
turns,  unable  to  restrain  her  indignation.] 


[ACT  III]  MADAME  PEPITA  237 

Madame  Pepita.  [To  Catalina,  seizing  her  by  the 
arm.}     What  is  all  this  nonsense? 

Don  Guillermo.  [Calmly.]  They  are  in  love  and 
want  to  get  married. 

Catalina  and  Alberto.  [In  unison.]  Yes,  we  want 
to  get  married. 

Madame  Pepita.     But  Augusto? 

Don  Luis.     Yes,  what  about  Augusto? 

Catalina,  [Heroically.]  He  doesn't  love  me  and  he 
is  out  of  it.     He  is  in  love  with  another  woman, 

Madame  Pepita.  You  don't  know  what  you  are  talk- 
ing  about. 

Catalina.  He  is  in  love  with  Galatea.  She's  just 
been  here,  and  she  swears  Augusto  will  never  marry  any  one 
else  as  long  as  she  is  alive. 

Madame  Pepita.     Galatea?     That  shameless  hussy? 

Don  Luis.     Leave  her  to  me.     I  shall  attend  to  her  case. 

Don  Guillermo.  [Interrupting.]  No,  it  has  been  at- 
tended to  already. 

Don  Luis.    We  shall  see. 

Don  Guillermo.  As  long  as  your  activities  in  this 
house  were  confined  to  checking  up  lime  and  bricks,  I 
remained  silent;  I  hesitated  to  arouse  my  wife.  Now, 
however  .  .  . 

Don  Luis.     Do  you  dare  to  insinuate  .  .  .  ? 

Don  Guillermo,  [Paying  no  attention  to  the  inter- 
ruption.] As  I  am  infinitely  more  interested  in  Catalina's 
happiness  than  in  her  mother's  bricks,  I  shall  not  tolerate 
any  further  interference  from  you, 

Don  Luis,     Then  you  imply,  sir  .  .  .   ? 

Don  Guillermo.  That  the  time  has  arrived  for  you 
to  go.  Remove  yourself!  We  are  not  in  the  habit  of 
discussing  family  affairs  in  the  presence  of  strangers.  [Turn- 
ing his  back.     Madame  Pepita  is  struck  dumb.] 

Don  Luis.  Very  well!  I  shall  retire.  What  shock- 
ing bad  taste!  Pepita,  you  will  regret  this.  You  will 
think  of  me  when  I  am  gone  and  you  are  pining  away,  alone 


238  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  III] 

with    this    man.     Remember!    You    have    my    sympathy. 
[Goes  out.l 

Madame  Pepita.  [To  Catalina.]  Because  Augusto 
may  have  made  a  few  slips,  is  that  any  reason  why  I 
should  permit  you  to — 

Catalina.     [Interruptinff.l     Certainly,  mamma. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Looking  scornfully  in  Alberto's 
direction.]     With  that  man? 

Catalina.     Certainly,  mamma. 

Madame  Pepita.  My  daughter,  the  daughter  of  a 
Russian  duke,  marry  a  clerk,  who  is  a  retailer? 

Catalina.     He's  an  artist. 

Don  Guillermo.  In  a  few  years,  he  will  be  famous — 
I  guarantee  it.  He  will  paint  pictures,  win  medals,  and 
in  the  course  of  time  be  elected  to  the  Academy — [Sadly.] 
perhaps  in  my  place.  Some  families  seem  predestined  to 
glory.  You  will  have  a  great  man  for  your  husband,  as 
your  mother  has  had  before  you. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Siffhinp.]  All  the  same,  a  title 
would  have  done  no  harm,  if  we  could  have  had  it  thrown 
in.  I  don't  want  anybody  to  say  I  am  an  unnatural 
mother. 

Catalina.  [Embracing  her.]  Nobody  ever  accused  you 
of  that,  mamma. 

Alberto.  We  are  much  obliged  to  you  for  what  you 
have  done. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Deeply  affected.]  Children  are  a 
constant  source  of  anxiety. 

Alberto.  But  I  must  not  miss  my  train.  I  am  nerv- 
ous. If  there  is  nothing  I  can  do  .  .  .  Madame  Pepita, 
Don  Guillermo  ...  I  can  never  thank  you  sufficiently. 

Don  Guillermo.     My  wife  deserves  no  thanks. 

Madame  Pepita.     God  help  us  both! 

Alberto.    Adios,  Catalina. 

Catalina.    Adios. 

[They  look  at  each  other,  too  embarrassed  to  move.] 

Alberto.    I  must  be  going  ,  .  . 


[ACT  III]  MADAME  PEPITA  239 

Catalina.     Yes,  you  really  must. 

Alberto.  If  I  am  to  return — the  very  first  thing  in  the 
morning. 

Catalina.     Be  sure  you  don't  forget! 
[Don  Guillermo  smiles.] 

Alberto.  [Confused.]  I  am  going.  I  am  going 
now  .  .  .  Adiosf 

[Disappears.    Catalina  gazes  after  him,  without 
daring  to  follow.] 

Don  Guillermo.     Run  along  and  see  him  off,  if  you 
want  to.     Everybody  is  willing. 
[Catalina  runs  out.] 

Madame  Pepita.  Well,  she  seems  happy,  I  must  say. 
This  has  been  a  great  day.     She  is  going  to  leave  us. 

Don  Guillermo.  [Pacing  up  and  down,  as  he  re- 
peats his  wife's  words.]  Yes,  she  is  going  to  leave  us. 
[Suddenly  realizing  their  significance.]  Going  to  leave  us? 
True!     She  is  going  to  leave  us! 

Madame  Pepita.     The  poor  dear! 

Don  Guillermo.  [Startled,  staring  at  his  wife  as  if 
discovering  her  for  the  first  time.]  And  I  am  left  alone 
with   this  woman! 

Madame  Pepita.     [Coyly.]     Guillermo  .  .  . 

Don  Guillermo.  What  luck!  [Fiercely.]  Catalina 
is  going  to  marry — naturally,  she  will  live  with  her  hus- 
band. Then  what  will  become  of  me?  I  have  nothing  to 
detain  me  here.  There  is  no  time  to  lose!  I  have  an  in- 
vitation to  visit  Egypt  to  conduct  excavations. 

Madame  Pepita.     Not  in  Egypt? 

Don  Guillermo.    Yes,  of  long  standing. 

Madame  Pepita.  But  you  can  not  go  alone?  [Don 
Guillermo  nods.]     What  is  to  become  of  me? 

Don  Guillermo.  [Uneasily.]  You?  [She  assents.] 
You  can  stay  behind — the  trip  would  be  too  fatiguing. 
Besides,  you  could  never  make  up  your  mind  to  leave  all 
these  objects  of  art. 

Madame  Pepita.     [On  the  verge  of  tears.]     True,  I 


240  MADAME  PEPITA  [ACT  III] 

forgot.  Aren't  they  lovely?  I  know  you  only  want  to 
get  rid  of  me. 

Don  Guillermo.     Nonsense!     How  could  I? 

Madame  Pepita.  It  mortifies  me  to  think  that  my  hus- 
band— 

Don  Guillermo.     Although,  strictly  speaking — 

Madame  Pepita.  But  you  grow  fond  of  a  dog  when 
you  live  with  him.  After  my  experience  with  that  man,  it 
never  occurred  to  me  that  I  could  love  another.  But  my 
heart  is  tender,  and  I  couldn't  help  seeing  what  you  were. 
You  happened  along,  and  after  all,  you  are  my  husband, 
though  I  am  not  the  one  to  say  it,  and  I  am  your  wife,  and 
.  .  .  and  I  love  you! 

Don  Guillermo.     Pepita,  do  not  prevaricate. 

Madame  Pepita.  No,  I  love  you!  I  wish  to  God 
that  I  didn't,  but  it's  too  late  now,  and  I  love  you.  [Burst- 
ing  into  tears,  she  sinks  into  a  chair.]  And  there  you 
are! 

Don  Guillermo.  [Dumbfounded.]  Pepita!  But, 
Pepita!  Come,  come,  I  had  no  idea  .  .  .  [Going  up  to 
her.]     Don't  cry  now.     You  unman  me. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Sobbing.]  I  am  nobody,  and  you 
are  a  philosopher,  and  you  belong  to  a  different  class,  but 
I  love  you!  I  don't  care  whether  you  love  me,  only  it 
isn't  my  fault.  Don't  go  away,  because  I  can't  bear  it. 
I  have  lived  alone  all  my  life,  without  anybody  to  take  care 
of  me — my  first  husband  ran  away,  but  I  had  my  daughter, 
and  I  shared  her  with  you  because  you  said  you  needed 
her.  But  now  she  is  leaving  me,  and  if  you  leave  me, 
too,  you  take  the  heart  out  of  my  life! 

Don  Guillermo.     Pepita! 

Madame  Pepita.     There  is  nothing  left. 

Don  Guillermo.  Please  forgive  me.  A  man  may  be 
an  egotist,  but  not  to  that  extent.  I  was  not  thinking  of  you. 
You  are  alone  in  the  world,  you  have  been  deserted ;  but  so 


[ACT  III]  MADAME  PEPITA  241 

have  I.     I  do  not  ask  you  to  love  me;  it  is  more  than  I 
could  wish   .    .    . 

Madame  Pepita.     But  you  deserve  it. 
Don  Guillermo,     I  know.     You  have  no  idea  what  it 
means   to   a   man   to  have   a   wife   at   his   side.     Old    age 
is  coming  on,  when  it  is  sad  to  be  alone.     No,   I  cannot 
refuse  the  ofifer  of  a  generous  woman's  hand. 

Madame  Pepita.  [Sitting  upJ]  Guillermo,  this  is  so 
sudden! 

Don  Guillermo.  [Stifling  a  sobJ]  We  might  spend 
our  honeymoon  in  Egypt  and  conduct  explorations  by  the 
way. 

Madame  Pepita.  Guillermo!  [And  they  fall  into 
each  others  arms.] 

[Catalina  enters,  flushed  and  confused  with  the 
remorse  of  the  first  kiss.  Her  eyes  open  wide  as  she 
discovers  her  mother  with  Don  Guillermo.  After 
hesitating  a  moment,  she  smiles  discreetly,  smoothing  her 
disordered  hair.] 
Catalina.  Papa  and  mamma!  [Tiptoeing  out.] 
Something  new. 

Curtain 


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